


Scent of Sunshine

by Army C (arh581958)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alpha!Ian, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF!Mickey, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Canon Compliant, Come Inflation, Gratuitous Smut, Insecure Mickey, Jealous Mickey Milkovich, Knotting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Omega!Mickey, POV Mickey, Pining!Ian, Post-Season/Series 03, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scenting, Scents & Smells, UPDATES: When I get inspiration to write. I'll try to post on Tuesdays though., pining!Mickey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Alphas and Omegas respond differently to different scents. Only betas have the luxury of being less scent-sensitive. Being born an omega, Mickey’s learned to cope with all this by heart. Each person falls on a different part of the spectrum—mostly good but some bad. Ian Gallagher is the best damn thing that Mickey's scented in his entire life. It's too bad that Mickey's just might be the exact opposite of that. Mickey's got a scent that would sent alpha's away with their proverbial tales tucked between their legs. It's a match made to end in utter disaster—or, at least, that's what Mickey thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts from Season 01 Episode 07, and stays canon for until Season 3. It explores the world in an non-stereotypical ABO setting. Unlike most ABO stories, while emphasis is given to the second gender status (hereby referred to as _status_ , there is not too much class inequality. This type of AU is difficult to read if you're unfamiliar. A link to the ABO primer on AO3 is posted in the end comments. Also, the underage tag is because this story starts off with them in canon; Mickey (16) and Ian (14). Don't worry. They do grow older. 
> 
> Sorry to everyone waiting for [_Booters_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8036359). This story just wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it all down. Before I realized it, there was more than five chapters on my phone—yes, my freaking phone—and I thought that I might as well finish it while I had steam. After this, I'll be able to write _Booters_ again~ Yay~ So please, do patiently wait for that. 
> 
> **Beta Read by the Awesome Mel~** I hope you feel better soon.  <3 <3 <3

Alphas and Omegas respond differently to different scents. Only betas have the luxury of being less scent-sensitive. Being born an omega, Mickey’s learned to cope with all this by heart. Each person falls on a different part of the spectrum—mostly good but some bad.

There are omegas whose scent will drive alphas—from far and wide—mad with desire.  All throughout his childhood, Mickey's been plagued with haunting stories of omegas being bonded and bred against their will. Apparently, a very rare few stray to the other side completely, whose scent would drive alphas running away with their proverbial tails between their legs.

Mickey's prayed that he be part of that few. On his fifteenth birthday, his prayers are answered when his first heat arrives and all his siblings, except for Mandy (a beta), run to the high hills to get away from him. ‘Dirtiest white boy’ isn't just a label for him, but a way of life.

Instead of the coveted _fuck-me-now_ scent, Mickey releases a pungent _fuck-off_ scent that fits his bad-boy persona and stubbornness. Someday it might get the better of him.

“Look on the bright side, Mickey,” Mandy says as she leans against his closed door, “at least you won't get rape bonded to some creep.”

Mickey takes it for the blessing which he believes it is. He shrugs off the growing humiliation gnawing his stomach and spends the next four days locked up in his room with fingers shoved up his leaking ass. If his wrists still ache a week later, he tells himself that he ain't no bitch.

He doesn't think his heat scent's anything but the one good thing that nature got right. Being an omega no longer meant just being a breeding bench when no one actually wanted to breed him during his heats. It’s not a big loss. There's always a beta willing to bend over for a stout omega like him.

Another three years pass by and Mickey gets steady sex whenever he wants it as long as he approached his hook ups far enough from his heat. It's long enough that he can predict it down to the hour before his heat scent begins. He's long gone from the streets by then, cooped up in his messy little bedroom. Not even Terry dares to come near him during his heat. It would have been heaven of he isn't drowning in a pool of his own sweat and slick.

Mickey convinces himself that his heats are the best time to be free. That is, of course, before Gallagher came into the picture.

Ian Gallagher, the runty middle child of the Gallagher clan, just happened to be an alpha. One minute they’re throwing punches at one another, then all of a sudden they're ripping each other’s clothes off.

He's Mickey's first alpha.

Mickey will never admit it out loud but maybe the lankiness is all part of the appeal. An alpha skinnier than him didn't pose a big enough threat as, say to someone much larger. Alpha strength or no alpha strength. Maybe the freckled red flush also has an appeal. Either way, they start banging and it's _good_ banging.

After a shaky start, Gallagher's inner alpha comes out to play and the kid pounds Mickey into the mattress like motherfucking pro. It makes Mickey keen breathlessly with his ass presented high-up in the air. Lips mouth at his shoulder. He can almost _taste_ the pheromones in the air as the alpha pants behind him.

There's just enough sanity left in Mickey to growl, “Try it and I'm gonna to punch every fuckin' tooth out! I don't give a shit if you still got your baby teeth!”

The lips retreat but a hand takes its place, clamping down on the small bump where the mating bite should be. Since there's less danger for an accidental marking, Mickey lets it happen. The firmness of the grip on his shoulder and hips only heighten the sensation of floating. Gallagher’s scent covers his own like a large fleece blanket, cocooning him in heat. It smells like summer.

Not only is Gallagher long but he’s thick and heavy. It's ill-proportioned with the rest of his body. When his knot finally pops in, Mickey _keens_ at the fullness he's experiencing for the very first time. His insides warm-up with the heat of Gallagher's spend, feeling him up to the brim and then some more. It's so intense that his normally flat stomach distends ever so slightly.  

He touches the hard head of Gallagher’s cock just below his belly button using his fingers. They both hiss at the over stimulation. Mickey feels the clench and unclench of his inner muscles, drawing out the alpha's seed.

“Mick, don't.” It sounds so wreaked and broken and _raw_.

Mickey's inner omega preens at seeing an alpha utterly debauched by him. Suddenly, he wants more of it. His hands press harder, massaging the knot and feeling more cum pour into him. Another wave pumps out of Gallagher and Mickey thinks he actually _likes_ being trapped on Gallagher's monstrous cock.

The knot stretches him wide at the open. He's never taken a knot before now but his inner omega purrs at the _rightness_ of it, where all else before had felt wrong. Both of them are basking in the tie, when Terry blindly walks inside to take a piss. Mickey's insides clench in fear, making the redhead hiss.

It's good that they aren't facing each other, that the alpha's leaning against the headboard with Mickey on his lap. Like this, he won't see Mickey's fear. He won’t see the way Mickey’s face goes paler than the yellowing sheets under them.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he hisses back with a growl. Multitudes upon multitudes of possibilities run through his head—how dislodge the knot, how to get away, how to reach the nearest exit before Terry does lasting damage. All that narrows down to a few steady breaths as Terry walks back into his room.

Under him, the alpha growls at the much older beta.

Terry freezes at the sound. His eyes closed and his nose are wrinkled. “Boy, don’you take a fucking shower? What do I fucking pay for? Yo u smell like a dump.”

Mickey wants to yell out “No, You don’t. Iggy's drugs and his scams play for the bills” but he's more awed by the fact that Terry hadn't even acknowledged the alpha in the room. It's got to be some social hierarchy or Mickey's scent just brings water to his eyes. He hopes for whatever reason, Terry doesn’t go for them at their most vulnerable.

“Ayy, ayy,” he says instead, moving his hand to send another wave of scents towards Terry. The older man flinches as it hits. “Ima take a shower. Get outta my room!”

Terry, half-drunk and mostly groggy, stumbles out of the room with a grumble.

“Mick,” Gallagher's voice, octaves deep with a dash of _alpha,_ speaks. His breath hot against the back of the omega's neck, millimeters from the bonding bite. “Is this you heat scent?” He’s holding onto Mickey’s waist with his hands covering the omega’s stomach.

“No.”

Technically, it's not a lie. Mickey sniffs himself. He's not in heat. The signs are present but he's not there— _yet_. He tells himself that the copious amounts of slick on the bed is only because he banged an alpha and nothing else. His cycle is two more months away. The pungent odor is because he hasn't showered in a few days and not because his inner omega wants to entice the alpha. What a load of bull. His scent won’t do shit except drive Gallagher away.

“You should go,” he announces, anything to stifle the deafening silence. “I’ll give ya then gun. Then you gotta leave, ayt, Firecrotch?” He feels Gallagher tense under him. At the moment, he can’t give two shits about it. “I ain't stupid. Ya went here to get pedo-towel head's gun ‘cause you bang. S'a gift or some shit? Whatever. I ain't no bitch. S'a bang nothin' more.”

Gallager's scent hits him with such a force—guilt, and Mickey knows he got it right. There's something wrong with Gallagher's scent. Now that they're waiting out the knot, he can finally decipher that spicy buttery scent of another omega clinging to Gallagher's skin. It makes his skin crawl at the mere thought. He fucking hates it.

At the stunned silence, he snorts. “I gotta nose, asshole. I ain't a dumb shit. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You work junior here,” he rolls his hips on the alpha's knot. It's still rock-hard and protruding his distended belly. They both slightly moan at the motion. “Then you gonna make me cum again until I'm satisfied. _Then,_ I give ya the gun back. Ayt?”

Gallagher's already canting his hips in anticipation. “Okay. Okay, Mick, anything.” His hands hold tightly onto Mickey’s hips, and will probably leave bruises for tomorrow morning.

Mickey grins to himself and gets another one of the best fucks in his life. They go four more rounds with the alpha bending him in ways he didn't know he could until they finally collapse in a heap of stinky sweaty bodies on the bed. The knot dislodges with a loud pop, followed by an obscene _squelch_ of cum oozing out of Mickey. It should be disgusting but he finds he doesn’t care. His whole body feels as loose as his hole.

“Bottom drawer,” he mumbles, drowsy and fatigued, sore in all the best ways possible. “Get the gun and leave. Imma crash for a week.”

Gallagher doesn't immediately follow. He makes a racket moving from cabinet to cabinet then walking into the adjourning bathroom. The sound of water follows. Mickey tries hard not to think about how badly Gallagher wanted to scrub _his_ scent off before even venturing out of the room. Bitterness wells up in his throat and he pushes it aside. His ass still remembers the shape of Gallagher's cock inside him.

“Mick,” a soft voice calls gently from above him. Cool droplets of water fall onto his skin. He jerks.

“What the fuck?!” He glares at a freshly showered Gallagher with his fringy red boyband hair falling to his face.

“I thought you might want me to clean you up, err, of my cum…” Gallagher's face matches his darkened hair. It goes down to his chest—the reddish pink flush. It's probably the heat from a hot shower.

Mickey feels the remnant emitting from the pale skin. He eyes the bunched up old t-shirt in Gallagher's hands. “Touch me with that and' I'll fucking break your hand. Fuck off!” He orders, bare foot hitting the jean-clad thigh. “Get outta my room, asswipe. I wanna sleep.” He turns on his stomach and doesn't watch Gallagher leave.

His heat comes the very next day.

He buries his nose on his pillows trying to find Gallagher’s scent.

Mickey tells himself that it's just another fuck. 


	2. Chapter 2

Thing is everyone can't really _smell_ their own natural scent, the one that clings to their skin after an hour-long shower using scentless soaps. It takes a ton of shit to cover it up. Science says it's because people are desensitized to their own scent—so used to it—that they forget it's even there.

Most days, it's not a problem. During his heat, his alpha brother goes on a two-week long drug run. Iggy, along with their cousins, don't explain why Mickey isn't invited. They don’t have to. Mickey’s alright with this. Every cycle, he offers Mandy to go on a sleepover with one of her friends—girl or boy, he really didn't care which—but she always refused to leave him alone when he's vulnerable and Terry's walking around free.

It's a blessing and a curse that the man whose seed spawned them, a beta who grew up in the hoodlums of the Southside, never made it past grade school. Terry lives in a small world where alphas are males, omegas are females, and betas could be either gender. As far as he's concerned, omega males like Mickey only existed in gay porn.

Terry’s weak sense of smell couldn't tell him otherwise. He can’t smell people's second gender. Most of the time, he took in social cues like how people walked, talked, dressed, or how other people responded to them.

All Mickey had to do is walk, talk, and dress like Iggy and Terry never clued in on the difference. He suppressed the innate submissive tendencies to alphas all around him—curse with every sentence, hid his scent by wearing Iggy's day old clothes, and projecting for all the world that he isn't an omega.

For a while, it's good. It might not be the perfect system because during his heats he still lay captive to his instincts but it's better than being rape-bait like most of his kind. He _could've_ suppressed them. But, when people all around started avoiding him rather than being drawn to him, he found suppressants to be too fucking expensive. A week worth of solitude don't mean shit when that's the norm. Plus, he ain’t got the cash to cover useless shit like that. 

Mickey knows—at least the rationale part of his brain knows—that Gallagher isn’t _his_ alpha, but his inner omega refuses to listen. See here; the thing with Gallagher _shouldn't_ have happened. It's a fluke, an anomaly, an accident. Gallagher's knot must be magic or some shit. Even the alpha's ancient married boss is panting over it. 

As much as Mickey hates to think about it, he's just another hole to a slot that massive knot in, no matter how much he may like the fucking thing. He tries not think about how much that _stings_. Still, he goes through his heat with the memory of a ginger-haired alpha pounding him into the mattress, clinging to the faded scent on his sheets. 

He hates that part and he hates Gallagher for getting him addicted to alpha-dick. That's the only explanation why this heat, (despite his impressive bulbous-headed vibrating dildo) felt like his very first one—as if something's missing. The drill for getting clean is the same for any addiction: abstain from the substance.

Mickey's resolve only lasts a couple of weeks. How could he when the object of his omega's wet dreams is sprawled on their couch _getting ass-whooped by Mandy_ at video games? He ain't no saint. Anyone weaker  would have succumbed that very day. He makes it to almost three months before he visits _Kash and Grab_.

Ian's behind the counter with that dorky apron on; his head snap to the door and his eyes widen when Mickey steps into the store. For a moment, his scent flares up, but it does nothing to cover the smell of ’ _fucking_ _’_ seeping into the air—fucking towelhead and that spicy Paki-scent. 

“Fuck, man, you gotta air out the place,” Mickey says, fake casually, as he strides into the store. It's an effort not to wrinkle his nose where the scent's the strongest. (Right in front of the freezers.) He passes the cooler doors and goes for the Pringles instead.

Ian's still glues on his spot. “Mickey, what, err… what are you doing here?”

“Got hungry” is what Mickey answers, popping the can of Pringles open. He gets the salty original one in the red can because he imagines Gallagher's cock to taste just as salty. “You?”

“I work here.” Gallagher tells him pointedly but there's a hint of amusement in his tone—playful even.

Mickey fights down the blush. “Oh?” He goes and acts casual again, moving up and down the aisles as if he's looking for something. And maybe he is but it certainly isn't food. He bites at the corner of his lip and rubs it with a salt-crusted thumb. “That, uh,” he licks the salty corner, “mean you got keys to the backroom or something?”

Gallagher's wave of arousal nearly causes him to fall to his knees and present. “… or something,” says the alpha. He points to the accordion door beside the freezer units. “Go there. I'll, uhm, I'll just lock the door.”

Anticipation buzzes under Mickey's skin as he follows the order. The fact that it _is_ an order which he so eagerly complies to, barely registers in his lust addled brain. All thoughts of another omega being exactly where he is right now fades out of his mind. It's Gallagher and his spicy heady scent smelling like a hot summer’s day that matters to him.

“Here,” Gallagher says, keying the side door of the freezer. There's a _whoosh_ of cold air that escapes but it's also scentless. “Filtration system.” Gallagher points to the small rectangle screens overhead. “Neutralizes the scents inside here so they don't mix up.” Damn, the fucker's kinda smart too. He's got to be one of them special kids or some shit. 

Mickey just nods, barely understanding whatever Gallagher's spewing. It definitely doesn't work that quickly because he still smells Gallagher's scent in the tiny space they're in; it completely surrounds him. It's cleaner than before, lighter but still smelling heavily of alpha. This only means that he hasn't banged towelhead yet, and a tiny part of Mickey preens at the thought.

Instead of falling to his knees and revealing his weakness, he bends over the nearest flat surface. It's not presenting, he lies to himself, it's just fucking convenient. He's just being practical and standing up while banging fucks-up his knees.

“Whatcha waiting for?” he growls in annoyance as he looks back at Gallagher. The redhead's just staring at him. For a second, doubt fills Mickey because _this_ is such a fucking bad idea. Gallagher doesn't want him. Who would want a smelly fuck—

“Mick,” Gallagher's deep voice barrels through his thoughts, derailing it. A hand comes down to cup his exposed cheeks, fingers molten hot on ice-cold flesh. “Stop thinking. I've got you.” It's almost kinda hot, except Mickey's freezing his ass off. 

“Then fucking get on me! I ain't got all day!” He snarls with as much venom in his voice as he could muster. It still somehow comes out weak. Behind him, the alpha makes an approving noise. Mickey resolutely doesn’t _keen._ He pushes down his inner omega's urge to _purr_. This ain't some romantic comedy shit like on TV. It's just a fuck, he keeps telling himself. 

A finger traces over his hole, spreading the natural slick _pouring_ out of him. A month left before another cycle and he shouldn't be this wet or this _sensitive_. His toes curl pathetically inside his shoes and all he can do is hold the edge of the soda can carton while the freezing cold cans dig into his stomach. He feels every single place that they're touching. The touch burns against his skin. 

Gallagher takes a long fucking time opening him up—one finger, two, three, then four. Mickey's eyes become watery every time the thumb brushes over his perineum. He thinks that Gallagher might tease him with a fist instead of the cock that he came all the way here for. It's not fair. He doesn't have the room to do anything but  _take it_. 

A whine escapes him. Seconds later, the fingers disappear and the blunt head of Gallagher's dick pushes at his rim. It forces him to stretch despite the prep. His body craves the burn of a live cock spearing him open.

It's good. It's so good that Mickey bites his lips to stop whimpering like a grade-A omega cockslut. He doesn't want to spill his biggest secret that he _likes_ how Gallagher's sure and rough when he's pounding Mickey from behind. A good thrust in and he accidentally punctures his lower lip. He curses.

Behind him, Gallagher's blabbing like an idiot, saying things like “So good, Mick, so tight on my cock. Swallow me up so good,” or “The best—the best fu—uck!”

Mickey loses it. He rides the euphoria and rhythm of Gallagher's strong steady thrusts. The _clang-clang_ of the flimsy steel bars harmonizes with the jingle of the beer cans. If not for the freezer, he would have melted into a puddle because of Gallagher's heat. This type of thing, he could get used to it. It makes him  _not ashamed_ for being the gender he presented in. Being an omega ain't so bad if he gets  _this_. 

A sweat-cold nose cools against his hot skin, buries itself at the back of his neck. “Fuuuuck, Mick,” Gallagher pants, and his nose is dripping sweat on Mickey's back. “You smell so fucking good.” Then, he's licking a way stripe on Mickey's neck, over the bonding gland and up to the ear.

Mickey shivers at the touch. Damn the stupid alpha for playing his body like a _maestro_. The scent of Gallagher is too thick in the air like an anaconda. He comes right over the thick translucent white protective plastic wrap of the cans. It streaks across—white on white. His knuckles turn white as well when his whole body pulls taunt. He whites out for all of ten seconds, suspended in the high, like he floated on air—free.

He falls into a messy heap with Gallagher draped over him. The thick musky alpha scent enveloping him in every way possible.His insides clench at every pump, willing the seed to settle inside him. He berates himself for forgetting the condom again but pushes that thought away just as quickly. No other feeling in the world could replace this.

Gallagher nuzzles his neck again and sighs in that stupid dorky way of his. “Smells s'good, Mick, so good.” If it isn't for the knot tying them together, Mickey would have pushed the alpha off him. Screw feeling good. He knows how he smells. Either Gallagher's doped up to the gills in endorphin or it's not him that Gallagher's talking about. That thought burns through him like acid.

“Ayy, stop that faggy shit.”

There's a chuckle. “Says the one whose milking my cock with his ass.”

Mickey throws his full weight at knocking his head back. A _crunch_ slices through the freezer's dull buzz.

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Mickey!”

“Serves ya right faggot. I ain't no bitch for liking what I like. It’s fucked up biology or some shit,” he mutters out loud, fighting his instincts to cower and apologize. He means what he said about not being no bitch.

The pain causes Gallagher's knot to go down faster. When Mickey turns around, there's a thin trail of blood under Gallagher's nose but the stubborn thing doesn't look broken.

“Ayy, you good?” He asks without meaning to.

Gallagher wipes his nose and laughs. “Yeah. Didn't think you'd care.”

Mickey wants to bolt as soon as possible. “Nah, man, jus' don’t wanna break parole.” Which is a lie because he’s not stupid enough to be caught. He shakes his head while tugging his boxers and pants back on. The whole freezers smells like them and he thinks that, together, their scents don't smell too bad. It's another treacherous thought that he pushes away.

Gallagher's looking at him like he has two heads.

“Relax, man, s'juvie not jail. Ain't old enough for the big house.” Mickey doesn't understand the need to explain himself. It's an instinct that he needs to trample down. “Hey, if you’re good ya should come around to play games or shit. Mandy needs to win sometimes.”

“Like a date?” Gallagher looks at him hopeful puppy dog eyes.

Mickey succeeds in shutting up his inner omega for once. “Fuck no, s'not date. Don't do dates, douche. I jus' need somebody else's ass to whoop, ayt? Ya in or what?”

“Okay.” Gallagher nods, slightly deflated.

“Ya well. This was good.” Fight or flight. Mickey's instincts are yelling for him to flee. He wants to do so in the most elegant way he can. Flipping the bird, he exits the freezer with a slight limp to his step. “Later asshole!” he yells, without ever looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I put the wrong date when I uploaded this chapter. Sorry to those who didn't see it before! 
> 
> I'd love to hear from you~ :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love that this story is receiving!
> 
> For CarrieLouise and Guest, who wanted some alpha competition for Ian. *winkwink* :D

Gallagher drops by the house with no forewarning, red-faced and winded. Mickey's the one who opened the door, and by no coincidence too—he smelled the kid's distressed scent from nearly a block away. It stinks in a way that would cling to the floorboards of their house's small entrance landing. Too bad. Mickey wants the smell gone, easier not to be detected. 

“The fuck you doin' here? You crazy or some shit?” He buries the worry with a snarl. It's late afternoon and Terry's passed out less that five feet away. He doesn't worry about his scent flaring, lucky that it's buried under the stench of Iggy's day-old shirts. 

Gallagher looks like he just faced death in the face. “M—mick, I—I just need to see you,” he says with his big dopey puppy dog eyes, riddled with apprehension in the endless shades of green. “Please, I just—I don’t know where else to go.” 

Mickey bites his tongue then his lip. His thumb brushes over the swollen flesh. “Thought you were working today?” Great. Now, it seems like he's got Gallagher's schedule all figured out. He does, technically, but there's no way he's gonna admit that. 

“I am. I do. I'm supposed to be there now. Linda's gonna have my ass. But, Mick, I just need…  _ you _ .” The last part's whispered like a secret, so quiet that it could be carried away by the wind. His scent is frantic and uncertain. He's staring at Mickey again as if the brunette had all the answers. 

Mickey doesn't but he ends up saying, “Go. I'll be there in twenty.” He forces himself to believe that it's not because he cares, but because even weak-nosed  _ Terry _ would be able to smell Gallagher's distress. What's a distresses alpha doing in their house? Mandy ain't around. 

“Okay.” He hears just as he shuts the door in Gallagher's face. Not even the thick wood could block the scent. He's too keyed into it, to aware for him  _ not _ to notice. There's footsteps leaving the landing. 

Mickey resolutely does not watch the dejected-looking alpha go. No, it's cause he's Terry's look-out for the four o'clock. It's a standard coke deal but in big quantity. The bulky alpha goes in and out in less than ten minutes, but not before he gives Mickey a lascivious look. 

“Fuck you staring at Fatso?” The omega glares, bearing his teeth.

The alpha eyes up Mickey then smirks. “You're loud for an omega. Bet ya'll scream when you're caught on my cock. How's about making an easy buck, bitch?” 

Mickey seethes but he hides it with what he hopes is a bashful looking smile. He stride up to Mr. Fat and Ugly, close enough that the alpha's disgusting alpha-scent chokes him. 

“Yeah?” He lowers his voice, “You gonna knot me?” The smell of arousal nearly brings tears to his eyes. He's got the asshole wrapped around his middle finger. When he close enough to touch, he reaches for the back of the guy's neck then head-butts him. The stupid alpha prick falls flag. Mickey spits on him before walking out the door. 

He wipes his hands on Iggy's jeans. Even distressed, Gallagher doesn't smell as bad to him. He still kind of likes it—earthy and warm and  _ hopeful _ . One doesn't always get that living in the Southside. Poor kid's still got his naiveté. 

It takes him another fifteen or so minutes via the L. He knows he's late. The thought already prickles under his skin. It's another five minutes from the station to the store. He high-pedals it. Inside, Gallagher's head snaps in his direction as soon as the bell chimes. 

Mickey can't  help but feel self-conscious at the intensity of the stare. It doesn't help that Gallagher's scent exponentially lightens when the redhead sees that  it’s him and not another customer. His legs move on its own accord, crossing the threshold and striding into the store. 

“Oiy,” he tries to keep voice steady, “We doin' this or what? I ain't no hooker on your dime, Firecrotch. Got places to be. Let's make this quick.” 

Gallagher's on him in an instant, up in his space, nose on his neck. He pushes the lanky kid away roughly, keenly aware that it wouldn't be  _ him  _ that the alpha would smell. He reeks of Iggy's alpha scent. Genetics means that Gallagher would be able to tell that he and Iggy are related. He can't explain the urge to explain why he smells like another alpha. Gallagher doesn’t own him. 

“The fuck are you doin? Linda's got a fucking camera!” 

“Don't care. S'least s'not Kash,” Gallagher murmurs against his skin.

The sound of another omega's name makes the ball drop in Mickey's gut. If he has another omega, what's Gallagher doing asking for him? He hates that he even thinks of it. Pushing it aside, he shoves the alpha away despite his inner omega's protest.

“Ya gonna flip that lock, asswipe, or should I just bust your knot for wasting my fucking time? I told ya I got shit to do.” Mickey puts on his toughest sneer. His inner omega demands for him to rip the fucking towhead piece by piece but the rational part  of his brains tells him that he doesn't have a right to—they aren't mates or some shit. Gallagher can bang whoever the fuck he wants. 

“Yeah…” Gallagher visibly deflates. He goes to latch the lock. There's none of the heated desire from their last two couplings. It's not a strong sturdy alpha that fucks like a pro standing before Mickey. Instead, it's thirteen-year-old  _ Ian Gallagher  _ the runt looking like a wet puppy. 

“C’mon,” is all he says, not wanting to give himself away. He  _ does not _ tug Gallagher's hand to make their way to the freezer. He walks a good five paces ahead of the alpha to be on the safe side. Distance keeps the illusion that he  _ isn't  _ here because Gallagher asked him. It makes the whole thing just feel like another fuck. 

Gallagher follows him inside the freezer. Chilly air blasts through the door. He still finds it hard to acclimate to the sudden  drop in temperature. A shiver runs through him but he drops his pants none the less and braces himself against the thin metal shelving. The air inside is stale and recycled. He  only just wants Ian's scent to surround him. 

“Alright. Get on me Firecrotch,” he says, looking over his shoulder. His pants squeeze him at the thighs, shirt up ever so slightly. It's not a warm shoulder  to cry on or any of that faggy shit, but it's all he can offer. Maybe sex would get Ian's mind off what the hell it is that's causing him distress. He lifts his ass just a tiny bit and urges, “C’mon, Gallagher!” 

It works. Ian's on him like an alpha possessed—hands over his belly, chest against his back, face buried on his neck. Mickey lets the slighter body mold against his. Heat. Alpha. Ian. It's all there, wrapping him up like a cocoon. Ian's everywhere—tongue licking his ear, hands rubbing his belly, cock sliding between his cheeks. Their combined scents fill up his senses again, completely void of anything but  _ fuck and fuck more. _

Ian noses at his skin again. His skin prickles. He almost wants to strip himself of Iggy's clothes and let Ian scent  _ him  _ again. It should be safe this far away from heat. He only gets as far as reaching for the back of his shirt when Ian growls, grabbing his wrist. 

“You smell like another alpha,” Ian says, inhaling the patch of cloth near Mickey's wrists. His eyes are dark and feral. “Why do you smell like another alpha?” 

Mickey roughly tugs his wrist away. “Fuck off, man, just forgot to do the laundry.” He's acutely aware of touching the alpha-douche less than an hour ago. 

“No.” Ian frowns. “I know your brother's scent. This isn't a familiar alpha.” 

“S’just Terry's customer.” He shrugs, still refusing to look Ian's way. “Get on with it, Gallagher,” with a smirk, he adds, “Or I'll get it somewhere else. Asshole kinda looked at me funny, ya know. Maybe  _ I  _ should sell him the blow, ya?”

For a second or two, fear crawls in his gut telling him he's gone too far but then Ian  _ growls _ and slides home in one powerful thrust. 

Mickey howls at the burn, not quite wet enough. “Fuuu—ck!” His entire body shakes, down to his knees which suddenly feel like Jell-O. He needs to hold onto the steel bars to keep his balance. Behind him, Gallagher’s going to town on his ass, hitting his sweet spot with every thrust, making his neglected erection weep clear globs of precum. “Damn  _ fuck _ Gallagher!” 

Apparently, it isn't over. Ian jerks Mickey's hand closer to him and _spits_ at the patch of cloth. He doesn't stop until there's a wet spot on the olive green fabric. Then, he _ruts_ into Mickey's ass like a feral alpha instead of timid Ian. He's also mouthing at Mickey's neck with tongue hot like coals. 

_ Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.  _ Their wet noises echo the small enclosed space. 

Mickey's legs are trembling where he stands and Ian doesn't seem like he's ready to finish just yet. Mickey bites his lips to keep from whimpering because he isn't a cockslut. It's too much yet too little. The thick round knot brushes over his rim but it lacks enough for to enter. Damn Gallagher for teasing him. He won't give the redhead the satisfaction of begging. 

They're huffing and grunting in tandem. The shelves rattle at every thrust. It's their concerto for sex—powerful and steady, frightening. A hand wraps around Mickey's cock, and the omega comes with a wail. It's thunderous, so loud that they don't hear the jangle of the door being opened. What they sense is another omega's distraught scent breaking their tiny bubbly. 

“Fuck!” Mickey turns around, sees Kash, and flees, lucky that Ian's cock was a hair's breadth from entering him. ‘ _ Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ _ is all he thinks as he runs all the way to the L. He smells like alpha and sex. If he's lucky, people on the train won't know that it isn't him. His hole throbs in emptiness that echoes the one in his chest. 

It's not until later—after a fresh shower, where he came with fingers shoved up his ass, and another set of Iggy's laundry—does he fully regret meeting Ian Gallagher. He's shot on the thigh with a gun than Ian stole back from  _ him _ . It makes him remember who exactly the redhead did it for—certainly not him.  The pain in his thigh is punishment enough. Blood seeps down to the linoleum time. There's a voice above him he barely recognizes then there's boys in blue pulling him away without bothering to see to the wound. It serves him right for corrupting Southside's only silverlining. 

He never does learn what caused Ian's initial distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh noes! Mickey! Next up is Mickey's time in Juvie (something that I haven't seen written too often). It's not all angst but it does give him some perspective. Please stay tuned~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed that nobody writes about Mickey being in juvie. So... I wrote Mickey in Juvie! 'Cause I kinda noticed the difference in his personality when he first went in then after he got out. I wanted to explore a bit how much influenced a shift in Mickey. Please enjoy, and Happy Halloween~ (Still updating on Tuesdays. Oh yeah.) 
> 
> I love you Mel, you the best beta ever~ kisses~
> 
> **Spoiler warnings at the bottom.**

Contrary to popular Southside belief, Mickey isn't adverse to taking a bath. He actually takes one every day. Sometimes twice if he needs it. It's a precaution. If he doesn't, he risks walking around Chicago smelling like a very  _ male  _ omega. It's bad enough that Terry hasn't figured it out yet. Wearing Iggy's clothes can only go so far. He needs to perpetually keep himself devoid of his own scent to be safe. 

The system knows that he's omega now because of the bloodwork. His documents are changed to show his true gender. It'll be harder to lie now. He'll figure out how to hide it from Terry when he gets out. For now, the best thing to do is lie low and not attract too much attention. He's lucky that alpha's are segregated from the packs.

Juvie isn't so complicated. It's routine—get up before the sun, hit the showers, shovel yellow slop pretending to be eggs, morning exercise and  _ school work _ even if Mickey doesn't go to school. Shovel whatever the fuck it is that they call lunch (Jell-O being the only thing remotely healthy in the bunch), free period, afternoon gym time, then back to their cage until dinner. After that's done, they are shuffled back and have to wait until lights out.  

Mickey's rooming with a Hispanic brunette—Fez, another omega—whose in the joint for casing a grocery store because his litter sister ran out of milk. Needless to say, not all of the kids inside are naturally bad eggs. He's kind of special case. There isn't a lot of them inside because their alphas bailed them out or used the  _ claim _ to bypass the system.

They may be segregated in sleeping quarters and different shower schedules but there are commons areas too like the mess, the gym, and the courtyard. Knotheads whistle and jeer as they pass the pack of alphas in the mess.

It’s Mickey's first time inside but he's heard enough stories from Iggy to play it by the ear. First thing is first—establish that he ain't no bitch because of his status. He flips them the bird on instinct and goes to the farthest table. It's a place that gives him full view of the lot—where he can either fight or flee when someone makes a move for him. Fez takes the seat beside him. As if on cue, one of the burlier looking alphas come his way.

“You Milkovich?” The alpha asks, eyeing him like a piece of meat.

Mickey shrugs in lieu of an answer. It's the wrong one based on how the alpha's scent rises in anger. Beside him, Fez freezes in his seat, scent responding in alarm. It's Mickey's shit luck that he got saddled with a pussy. Fuck it.

“Hey bitch! You look at me when I'm talking to you!” Red, the wrong kind of red, but still not as frightening as Terry's kind of red.

“Mickey…” Fez warns quietly.

Mickey just cocks his eyebrow, turning to Fez with mock innocence. “What?”

The alpha makes his move, barreling towards them. Fez jumps out of the way. Mickey is so ready. He grabs the alpha by the collar  and shoves the fat pudgy fuck into the sloop they try to call food. His elbow drops down onto the base of the alpha's neck, instantly knocking the sorry fuck out. Then, almost daintily, he picks up the unopened Jell-O cup on the floor and opens it. So much for keeping it low key. Now, he needs to deal with more knotheads and his injured leg hurts like fuck

“Douche mess with my fucking Jell-O,” he grumbles under his breath before slurping the sweet red jelly. Fez is looking at him like he grew a second head. He knows that puppy dog look. “Gonna go hang in the room for a while. You coming?” 

Fez nods so fast that his head might fall off. They fuck in semi-privacy of their own dorm. It's lucky that at least they could open the windows to air it out. That's pretty much the cycle of his first two months in—alphas try to  _ tame _ with him like he's a fucking trophy or some shit, he  _ crush _ anyone stupid enough to try, then he and Fez fuck in their room.

One day, he suddenly finds out that his commissary isn't empty. The first thing he does is buy a pack of smokes. It's been too long since he had one. He nearly runs to the yard in excitement. Woodsy smoke fills his mouth with every inhale. His tongue darts over his lips to chase the taste. If there's money in his account, it could only come from one place—Gallagher.

Gallagher's the last thing he thought about when he pass under the met threshold. Money in his commissary account must be hush money. There's no way that Gallagher could have spare dough lying around unless the towelhead was paying him for sex. The first stick goes and he immediately lights another.

“Oiy, Milkovich! Might wanna ease up them smokes, man. Shit's expensive,” Fez says in way of greeting, sliding beside him on the wall. He smells cleaner than usual and his hair's done in with some gel.

Mickey flips him the bird then light another, letting it  _ burn _ through him. “Fuck off. S'my smokes.”

“Yo, calm, man. Jus' sayin. You know it's visiting day, right? Got anyone on the outside coming to visit?”

Does he? Terry never gave a fuck. Not that Mickey wants him to visit. No way. Not when he’s still got ID to forge. Iggy  _ hates _ it here. All he's got left is Mandy  but it’s dangerous for her to come here alone. Fez looks like he's got  someone .

“Nah, man,” he says after finishing his second stick.

Fez stares at him as if he's grown a second head. “Yo, man, but you got smokes. There's no way you don't have at least  _ someone _ .”

“Know what? Fuck off, douche.” Mickey pushes off the wall, shoving Fez as he leaves. He's in the room all of two seconds when a guard roughly pries the door open.

“Milkovich. You've got a visitor. Open room four.”

Mickey can't believe his ears. The only person dumb enough to visit him is Mandy. How can she even get  here ? It's a 6-hour drive away. Stupid Skank.  She'll get in trouble if Terry caught her. He all but  spits out the word  “Skank” as loud and as obnoxiously as he possible can when he sees that it's not Mandy , but  _ Ian  _ waiting for him at the window. His leg isn't even healed yet and it twinges in pain, reminding him that the alpha isn't his to claim.

“The fuck you doing here?” is the first thing out of his mouth but the mouthpiece isn't on him. Instead, he tries for a casual “So?” paired with a cocked brow. “What d'you want Ia— Gallagher? ”

“Mickey,” Ian  _ breathes  _ into the analog.

Even if  there’s an inch of glass between them, Mickey swears he can smell the alpha again. “Thanks for putting money in my commissary account—running a little low on smokes,”  _ and soap, deodorant, and the nutribars he'll need for his upcoming heat  _ go unsaid.

“Not me. It was Kash. I told him you might still press charges.” The names makes his gut curl, and the fondness in the tone makes it twice as bad. It's obviously for the older omega. Odd though how Ian can describe a douche move over an omega he's fucking just like simply.

All Mickey can say is a weak “Thanks.”

Awkward silence stretching between them. It's annoying as fuck, broken by Ian's unsteady voice. “So… how long?”

Is that hope that Mickey hears? He hates that his chest leaps at the thought.

“Shit if I know.” He rubs a thumb over his nose. “Supposed to be a year, dunno, maybe a couple of months if I don't do anything stupid.”

“Stupid like what?”

Mickey glances around, sees a fat as fuck beta who likes playing bitch with one of the alpha inmates. “Like stabbing that fat fucking hick who tries stealing all my fucking Jell-O!” He yells at the top of his voice. The beta says something that he doesn't hear. “Asshole thinks he can get away with it ‘cause he bends over for an alpha.” Then, he's back staring at Ian's dopey puppy dog expression.

“I—I miss you.”

Mickey doesn't know what to say. No one’s ever  _ missed  _ him before for no reason. Not even Mandy tell him that. Why the fuck would Ian miss him? Can't the redhead find another hole to fuck? Damn if it isn't the curling feeling in his gut again.

“Say that again and I'll rip your fucking tongue out.”

Ian makes a face—from shocked to a slow smile curling on his lip. Like a dork, he puts his fingers on the glass. That dopey giddiness is rare in this forsaken prison. Only Ian can look at him and smile like he's the best goddamn thing in the world. Butterflies are back.

“Take your fucking hand off the glass,” Mickey growls. He bites his lip instinctively. “So, uh, how's the skank?”

Ian doubles takes. “You mean Mandy? She's good. Got a new boy toy hanging around her but nothing to worry about. She could kick his ass easy.”

“Tch. Skank goes for the easy lays,” Mickey snorts, laughing. “Didn’t ask her fucking lovelife, ayt? Just… She, ya know, good? Back home?” He  asked.

“Oh.” Ian's eyes widen in understanding. “Yeah. Yeah. Everything's good. Not too many guys hit on her now that they think I'm her boyfriend… Err, she wanted to come, ya know,  but I, uhh… I told her that I was doing shit today. I sort of wanted to talk to you alone. I mean--it's my fault that Kash—!”

“Oiy,” Mickey cuts him off. “Don’t folks tell ya you fucking talk to much?  _ Jesus _ ,  Gallagher . This shit ain't  your fault , ayt. Pansy brown-ass towelhead just caught me stealing shit, ayt?  _ Ayt? _ ” He adds a sneer for emphasis.

“Uhh, yeah. Right. H—how are you?”

“Only decent food ‘ere is Jell-O an’ knotheads all around. Nothing I can’t deal.” Mickey scoffs but, inside, his omega preens. A few days from his heat and his scent thicken pretty quick. People around him react quickly by wrinkling their noses. He's never been more thankful for the protective glass. Ian can't smell how much he  _ stinks _ —how much he wants Ian.

“ _ Jusmeyo _ !” The guy beside him blurts out. “Take a fucking shower, man.” He strings a couple more curses together then abruptly stands up. “Fuck, now  _ I  _ need to take a bath just from being next to you!”

Mickey flips him off. “Eyy. Fuck you.”

“Not in your dreams,  _ ijo _ .”

He turn back to Ian with startled eyes. There's an adoring expression on the alpha's face, not disgust.

“Still adverse to water, Mick?” Ian asks, smiling.

“Oiy, fuck off!”

Ian leans closer, as if whispering. “I always liked how you smell, Mick. Don't let them get to you.”

Mickey's omega preen again, releasing another wave of slick that his pants get wet. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as others start getting of their chairs, muttering obscenities his way. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. ‘ _ Not if you smell my heat,’  _ he thinks bitterly to himself.

“Piss off, faggot.” He slams the analog and walks away without ever turning back, dodging looks that they send his way—disgusted looks. The nurse in the infirmary nearly vomits when he enters the small space. She's an only matronly looking woman.

“ _ That _ your heat scent, dear?” She says even if her faces looks constipated.

Mickey could only nod.

“Oh, don't worry, dearie, it'll smell right to the right alpha. Why don't we get you into the heat room with some toys? We don't do alpha helpers.”

“I'm not yet in heat. S'couple more days.”

She just smiles. “I know but I can't let you back out smelling like that.” It's code for ‘you smell so bad that it would be irresponsible to let you stink-up the whole facility'.

Mickey tries not to let it get to him. It's no hardship given that there's a slow-burning fire burning through his veins. He spends two weeks in an isolated room with a knotting dildo shoves up his ass and  his fingers flying over his cock—the first of many while he's serving his time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** : Mickey/others (not explicit), prison rape culture (mentions), Ian/Kash (implied), canon-typical violence, BAMF!Mickey, cultural stereotype (not meant to offend, I'm sorry!), pining!Ian, pining!Mickey, mutual pining!
> 
> Please tell me what you think in the comments~ 
> 
> PS. I've been seeng Christmas Exchange on other fandoms. Anyone want to do some gift exchanges with me? :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, if I remember correctly, is a bit shorter than the rest. It's kind of a transition point between prison!Mickey and free!Mickey. Writer barely write about how he feels coming out of in-canon juvie. I thought I'd explore it a bit more.

Ian doesn't visit him again after that first time. Mickey forces himself to believe that he could give two fucks about it. In reality, it might even be more than two. 

The rest of the year passes relatively easy. Fez get's out eight months into his stay. He gets another one—a beta named Toff—who becomes his bitch easy enough. Alphas still constantly taunt him—one after another either trying to fuck him up or fuck him. They all get incapacitated one way or another. A constant flow of inmates means there's always a new cocky asshole willing to try for his ass. None of them ever win.

Mandy comes to see him sometimes. It's usually during long weekends or in-between semesters. One time, she visits out of the blue, on a goddamn school day, and just sits on the chair, phone to her ear, staring blankly at Mickey. He doesn't have a choice but to fill in the conversation for him then pulls a favor to get her some food from the mess. Milkoviches don't always use words to talk. He just knows that something's wrong. Iggy visits him too, once, to tell him that Terry's in the can for Thanksgiving and it sucks to be on the inside when the holiday won't be a complete piss-fair.

By month nine, Mickey's the king of his own little Harlem of omegas and betas. Some alphas—the smart alphas—learn not to mess with him or his crew because otherwise they end up with either a dry spell or broken bones. The one gold thing about all the leadership bullshit means that he gets all the Jell-O and smokes he wants—some sort of  _ friendship gift _ like he's the god-fucking-father or some shit.

February rolls in. Credit appears in his commissary account and a box of Snickers bars arrives in his dorm wrapped in brown paper. Ian's scent is all over the candy—but so is another omega's weak scent.

Toff whistles, peaking up from the tip bunk. “You got a someone on the outside, Mickey?”

Mickey surges off his bed, grabs the beta by the collar and pull him to the floor, pinning the slightly taller man by the chest. He uses his thighs to crush the poor guy's lung.

“You wanna say that again, bitch?”

“Yo! Touchy-touchy! All I meant is that those look like they come from the outside. No candy as good as Snickers in the commissary, man, s'all I'm saying. Ease up.”

“Good,” he says, spitting beside Toff's head. “Say anything like that again and imma fucking cut your dick and shove it in your mouth since you like eating cock so much, ya?” 

Toff nods so hard that his head smacks through the ground. They fuck after that with Mickey coming on the image of his hands pulling red hair instead of blond. Their scents mixed together smell wrong like overbaked bread that's nearly charcoal. It's not like him and Ian—clean like wind and sunshine. 

He hoards the Snickers better than he hoards the Jell-O. It lasts him months until he's finally out of this shit hole. When he does, the first thing that greets him is the smell of Ian Gallagher's  _ elated _ alpha mixing smoothly with the hot-as-balls Chicago afternoon. Mandy seems oblivious the scent pouring out of the boy, and,  _ god _ , the last year was good to the once lanky kid. Ian stands  _ taller _ than him now, in true alpha fashion. 

“Sup, Skank!” Mickey greets his sister with a nipple twister after singings his “fuck you” goodbyes to the shitplace. Ian smells really, really good—richer as if he just finished his rut. Mickey likes it a lot. It amplifies when Ian drapes a hand over his and Mandy's shoulder. He can't move away fast enough because even Mandy might smell his slick. 

Ian does though. He smirks at Mickey the whole way the bus stop. Mandy, of course, wants the window seat so the alpha ends up between the Milkovich pair. Mickey could have easily taken a seat on the half dozen free aisles but he stays close to the alpha—breathing in the scent he didn't know he missed until now. They're hour one of the 6-hour trip back to the Southside when Mandy falls asleep, with her head on Ian's shoulder. 

“You smell like you,” he whispers quietly, inhaling audibly. “I kind of like it. S'good not smelling another alpha on you.” 

Mickey scoffs. “S’dat your lame-ass way asking if I banged other alphas on the inside?” 

Ian makes tiny noise but doesn't speak. 

“Relax, Firecrotch, didn't bang no alphas inside. S'till jus you. S'been so long since I got knot.” Mickey can't phantom why he says it. His cheeks burn with embarrassment. He hadn't meant to blurt it out. All he wants to do now is bury himself headfirst into the nearest ditch that he can find. He won't say it out loud but he missed the smell of fresh air mixing with Gallagher's scent. 

Ian, tough, seems pleased by it. “Yeah?” he asks breathlessly, full of promise, finger tracing Mickey's knuckles under the jacket on their laps. 

“Yeah,” Mickey replies, just as breathless. Ian's scent and warmth wraps around him like a soft blanket on a stormy night. So many things that once rattle non-stop in his head for the past year suddenly becomes quiet. He's at peace for the first time in months, and he can't really be blamed it the bus' swaying rocks him to sleep—or maybe, it's the gentle hand on his shoulder that's keeping him close. 

At the house, things are pretty much the same save for the bottle of prescription med under his pillow. He finds more stashed in his bedside drawer, along with new fake IDs still claiming that he's a beta. It makes him smile a little bit. Iggy might not be the world's best or most physically present brother around but he's damn good by Southside standards. 

Mickey dry swallows a pill before heading out again. It's bitter on his tongue and leaves a tingling feeling for a couple of minutes. He thinks it worth the little stress if he won't have to worry about hitting a heat without warning again. It's something he can't risk. 

They meet up at the bottom of the El then walk the rest of the rest of the way to the fields. He isn't exactly sure what about the diamond draws him to it. Hot Chicago night prickles his skin but the dryness of it refuses to let him sweat it out properly. He says as much. Alpha musk follows him around like a lost puppy. His pants get damp at the scent. 

By the time they reach the dugouts, Mickey's got pants down to his knees and fingers gripping the steel mesh. “Alright, get on me, Firecrotch.” 

“You missed my cock, Mick?” It's also unfair how Ian's voice cracked and deepened in a year. It should have stayed the same squeaky timbre since Mickey last saw the alpha. At this rate, he'll be thinking of that sultry voice whispering more filthy things in his ear or saying his name like he matters. 

“Fuck off,” is what Mickey says. “Said I didn' do no fuckin alpha but I can still get ‘nother if you don' get on me!” 

Ian chuckles. 

A hand gently caresses his cheeks—first the left then then the right before running a thin finger down his crack. He shivers at the contact because no one, absolutely no one, has ever touched him like this before. It's new. It makes him nervous and tingly and everything he didn't feel in juvie when he fucked all those people. This is Ian Gallagher, and it's frightening. 

“C'mon, c'mon!” He growls. “While I'm still you—ahh!” A whimper shoots through his lips when something warm and slick slides down his cheeks and down to his hole. He gasps at it licks his rim—confident and sure. His fingers clench at the metal mesh, knuckles going white as his knees go weak. The slurping noises going on behind him are downright dirty. 

Ian's long hands hold him steadily by his hips, hot like coals on his warm skin. It's the only thing keeping his steady—grounded. He's never gotten a rim job before, always thought it was too  _ gay _ despite being an omega. He thinks now how much he  _ missed _ . Ian's tongue works his hole like a buffet. Then,  _ fingers _ . His brain melts into mush. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's a rhythm of fuck, clench, fuck, and occasionally biting on his lips. Any longer and he'll collapse. 

“Damnit,  _ Gallagher _ ! Fucking get on with it! I'm good. I'm ready. Fuck!” He barks out. It comes out more as a choked moan.

Ian growl from behind him, possessive. He licks one long wet line up the omega's crack then plunges right in like it's a mission from god. His hips jackhammer in frantic need, nose burying itself on Mickey's neck.

“Fuck, Mickey, fuck. So good. Smells so good.” He licks up Mickeys neck and whispers more filthy things Mickey's ear. “Never fucked an omega as good as you—no one's as good as this ass squeezing me tight. Fuck, Mick, I want you so bad. Been so good not fucking another alpha. Fuck, fuck!” 

Mickey squeezes his eyes and goes along for the ride. Ian's large cock splitting him open in ways that he hasn't felt in a long time.  _ This  _ is what he's been fantasizing about I juvie when he fucked all them other guys. He likes the loss if control, of a hard body pressed against his, of Ian controlling his pleasure. 

He makes noises of his own like “yeah” and “fuck” and “right there, harder, faster!” Ian wraps a hand around his neglected cock and Mickey comes all over the cemented dugout partition. There's a grunt behind him followed by the sensation of  _ warmth _ spreading in his lower belly--Ian's come filling him up. 

As Ian slips free, Mickey nearly whimpers at the lack of a knot in his hole. He curses at how  _ empty _ he feels, his loose hole gaping and probably dripping cum. Another shivers runs through him when Ian scoops it up and pushes it back in. 

“I could probably talk to Linda into getting you a job,” he says casually like his fingers aren't in Mickey's ass. “She’ll probably give you one.” 

“Piss off, Gallagher, I ain't cleaning up after other people's shit.” Mickey pushes the alpha off then re-dos his pants. He pulls out a cigarette and shotguns a beer, burping loudly when he's done. Ian's staring at him again with those big green eyes. It takes a chuck of him to move away. 

he goes for the metal bars on the roof and does a few pull ups. Ian's eyes are glued on his body. 

“Nothin’ to do in juvie ‘cept work out and shit.” It's a lie. There's plenty to do between that and fucking but he appreciates the way the alpha's blatantly checking out his new muscles, specially the ones in his stomach—it would be flat as a board if it weren't for Ian's cum filling him up. He hisses when a hand touches his belly. 

Ian's  _ beaming  _ as he palms the slight bulge. Mickey kicks him off to avoid embarrassment. Ian's sunshine scent filters through the wind. “Get down. I wanna do a set.” 

Mickey does, if only to get a good first hand view of how the muscles are starting to form on the alpha's young body. It's not quite there yet but with the way Ian's easily pulling up his frame, it'll be too soon before the redhead fully comes to his alpha nature. 

“Oiy,” Mickey says, playfully punching the alpha's stomach. “How long I gotta wait til you up for ‘nother go, ei?” 

Ian laughs as he goes down. With surprising speed, he manhandles Mickey to face the fence again and bottoms out in one smooth thrust. The omega takes it without a sound. He's licking up Mickey's neck again. “C’mon, Mick, I gotta get this everyday if we work together.” 

_ That _ sounds like a really good idea. “Yeah? How's about I do security or some shit? Can scare punks like me away.” 

To answer, Ian clamps down on his neck using only lips, mimicking a mating bite. Mickey comes so hard that he blacks out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it's kind of boring. :( I still hope that you guys like it though. Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are appreciated~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of headcanons made its way here. I'm hoping you guys like it. Please do tell me what you think. I absolutely love reading your comments! They make my day!

Working with Ian is decidedly awesome, not that Mickey'll ever admit that out loud. It's less sucky than anticipated having a nine-to-five job. Summer means that Gallagher's in the store as much as him. The only thing that might damped the mood is  _ Kash _ ’s annoying Paki-scent polluting still polluted air. Even Linda seems to think that the store needs a bit of airing out. 

Mickey and Ian get a day of paid vacation when they had to open up all the doors and just  _ let the evil out _ . Afterwards, Linda leaves with her sister for a long weekend making them feel like they are the kings of their own tiny castle. 

Ian's been busy with summer homework since this morning, barely giving Mickey the time of day aside from a quick fuck when they first arrive—a fact that annoys the omega.

Mickey's buzzing in his skin. “Oiy, what's a guy gotta do for some action around here?” He asks, leaning an elbow against the counter, right beside Ian's book. The supps from Iggy are working their charm. He doesn't smell so omega-ish anymore. Plus, Linda takes a cut from his pay when a customer leaves because of his stink. He can no longer go around wearing Iggy's shit. This is better. At least, he can smell himself now. 

“It’s trigonometry, Mick, you know—angles, trajectories, and all that stuff? I'll need it if I ever wanna get into Westpoint. I need all this stuff and a little bit more.” Ian says with a happy little hum. “It’s not really that hard if you put your head to it and study.” 

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. “Then why you taking the whole day, asshat? Been at that since like eleven or somethin' s'three now. We haven' even got our lunch hour yet.” He wiggles his brows suggestively with a bit of a smirk playing on his lips. “C’mon, Firecrotch, ya already burned out?” 

Instead of a growl that Mickey expects, Ian deflates. His ears would be plastered to his head if he had any. “I'm trying, alright? This stuff's just…  _ hard _ . I already know I'm not as smart as Lip. Why do I even bother?” 

“Hey, hey,” Mickey scents the moroseness overflowing. His omega wails inside him. “You ain't stupid, dipshit. Math's really hard. Lemme have a look. Where you havin' trouble at?” 

“Here.” Ian points to a math problem that Mickey's seen before in a book. Between fucking, working out, and ruling his own Harlem, all he could do in juvie is read, read, and read. He read the sorry-ass library collection twice before he got bored. The problem Ian has is figuring out the length of the third side of a triangle based on the other two sides and a missing third angle. 

“Alright, Army, first thing's first—you gotta find the missing angle if you wanna know how long this is,” he says, pointing to it mid-chew. “Ya know how to get that, right?” 

“Jeez, Mick, sure I do.” Ian rolls his eyes. “S’not like I haven't been trying to figure it out for the past, I don't know,  _ two hours _ ? I've tried every equation on the book and the numbers still don't make any sense. How does a 2.23 and a 8.19 make a 93.94 side, huh? Doesn't make sense!” He glares at the butchered yellowsheet that's now barely yellow. 

Mickey studies the figures that Ian's using, and notices what's wrong. “Gallagher, how many degrees are there on the inside of a triangle?” 

“How the fuck am I supposed to know! You need to solve for it or something!” Ian all buy spats in Mickey's face.

On a lesser day, Mickey would have shoves his sorry-face down onto the counter without worry but today he's just too horny to deal with this shit. He answers the question for Ian. “180. The inside angles of a triangle is always a 180. S'a rule or some shit. You gotta solve that with subtraction: one-eighty less angle a and angle b. That's how you get angle c.”

“The hell you know? Fucking flunked high school,” Ian jeers in a moment of hate. 

Mickey smacks him on the back of the head. “Oiy, don't droppin' out mean I'm stupid or some shit, asshole. You want my help or not? S'not like I give a shit. Imma go on my break,  _ fucker _ .” 

“Mick, wait,” Ian calls before he reaches the back door. He's got the puppy dog look in his eyes all over again. “I’m sorry. S’just… Westpoint's my ticket out of here, ya know? Fiona can’t support us for life. Lip’s got a future in college. I… I don't wanna stay in the Southside forever, man. I need to get out. I didn't mean to take it out on you.” 

Mickey stares pointedly at the alpha. 

“I'm sorry, Mick, really.” 

“For being an alpha knot-hole?” 

Ian smiles softly. “For being an alpha knot-hole. How about you help me with this for a bit and I'll fuck you nice and slow when he take out break?” 

“I don't know, man, nice and slow fucking ain't really my thing.” Mickey feigns disinterest, even if he's inching towards to freezer. “Got anything else you wanna offer, ei, Firecrotch?” 

Ian slowly licks his lips, a movement that Mickey blatantly follows. “I’ll rim you until you come  _ then  _ I'll fuck you full.” 

“Ayt.” Mickey grins, going back to the counter. “Show me your worse Gallagher. Let's get this show on the road!” He helps Ian with a few more math questions with the redhead smelling happier and happier after each problem. Mickey can't help but feel a little proud of himself. Who knew that reading a bunch of shit could come in handy? 

“Jesus, Mickey, you're amazing!” Ian says when they're finished with his problem sets. Ian isn't stupid  _ per se _ but he tends to be overly excitable and misses half the words in the problem solving section. Mickey has to tell him off of threaten him with body mutilation before he listened. 

They finally make it to the freezers. Mickey's hungry for it in more ways that one. He strips off his pants and lies down on the strategically arranged crates—it's the perfect height for Ian to pound into him. He's leaking slick all over the protective plastic. 

“You smell different,” Ian notes, face nuzzling Mickey's ass. He takes a tentative lick all over Mickey's quivering hole. “You taste the same but you smell different—subdued, just not as strong as you did before.” 

“S’that your way to say I stink, fucker?” 

“No. I'm just saying. That's all.” Ian grabs him by the thighs, lifts them over his shoulder, then goes to town—slurping Mickey's ass. The sounds echo in the small contained space. It's their breathing, their grunting, their panting blending into a one. 

Ian eats him out like a pro. He's legs shake there they rest in Ian's shoulders, uncontrollable. Power eludes him. He tries, he tries so hard to take it back. Helplessness is unbecoming of a Milkovich. Decided, he forces himself in a half-recline position so he can hold onto Ian's hair. The red heads looks fucking good between his legs. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes out. “Fuck me. C'mon, Firecrotch!” 

His cock bobs obscenely in his stomach, framed by his legs with the background of Ian' flaming hair. It's leaking clear viscous liquid at the tip. Licking his lips, he starts to stroke himself, spreading the slickness all over his flesh. Ian bats his hands away. 

“Oiy!” He glares at Ian, who is looking up with a mischievous expression. Mickey arches his brow in annoyance. “What? You gonna claim that too? You power trippin' or some shit, Gallagher?” 

“Ian,” says Ian. He slides his own slick-damp hand over Mickey's cock, thumb teasing at the slit then down to the balls. “My names  _ Ian _ not Gallagher. Too many Gallaghers,” he growls, “I need to know—need to hear you say my name, Mick. Say it. Say  _ Ian _ .” 

Mickey snapped his hips stubbornly. “Gallagher,  _ Jesus _ fuck, c'mon!” 

“It's Ian!” The alpha urged, thumb and forefinger squeezing at the base of Mickey's cock. 

Mickey struggles at the Ian's hold. A finger worms back inside him, pressing at his prostate with purpose. His eyes start to water at the dual sensations—front and back. He can't decide whether he wants to rock back or thrust in. It's too much and too little. Fingers aren't Ian's cock—Ian's knot. 

“I need it, fuck,  _ Ian _ , gimme your knot!” He  _ howls _ in the cold freezer space, hands on Ian's hair, feet looped around Ian's neck. With brute strength, he hauls the alpha up and reaches for the large nine-inch cock. It slips effortlessly into him, filling him up. His toes curl over Ian's shoulders. 

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” Ian mutters his name until it fades into pants. His thrusts are precise, aimed at Mickey's sensitive prostate. “God, Mickey, so fucking good.” 

Mickey holds onto Ian's biceps to keep from tumbling off the crates. The alpha's pounding him harder than ever before. It's amazing—deep and on point, just the way he likes it. He feels every monstrous inch of Ian's cock barreling his insides, making him squirm, making him shiver to the tips of his hair. Their scents mix into sunshine and wind.

Ian's lick up and down the column of his throat again, nipping at his Adam's apple, teeth over the sensitive skin. It's so close to his mating gland that he's nearly tempted to offer his neck more. He lifts his chin. Just a little more and—

“Hello boys.” Frank fucking Gallagher is looking at them through a layer of beers. “The front door's locked so I came in the back—no pun intended. You might want to check the locks.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No, fuck! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... we all know where this is going right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. I just have to say THANK GOD that I wrote all this in one sitting. You guys will not believe how hectic my life is right now. I have no time to write! Efff! Do send me your cyberlove. *cries* PLUS it's hell week in school. OMG. I should not have overlapped the two! Yikes!

Mickey's second stint in juvie is because he couldn't pull the trigger on one measly Alpha. Yeah, someone like TownDrunk Frank's actually on the top of the fucking social hierarchy. What are the odds? To be honest, it isn't Frank's status that saved him—Ian did. Those stupid big green puppy dog eyes full of hurt appears before Mickey's eyes just as he's about to pull the trigger. He doesn't and ends up here anyway. 

At the moment, juvie is better than being out there with Frank and his big mouth running all over the place. If Terry finds out, Mickey's as good as dead. They'll never find his body. It'll be a John Doe in the morgue without hands, legs, ears, or teeth—all unique parts of the human anatomy. 

“Well, well, look what the wind blew in—Mickey Milkovich. Didn't think you'd miss us already!” Toff bellows out from the yard fence where inmates gather to welcome in the  _ new meat _ or old friends. Mickey's lucky to be in the latter since the alpha's look like they're about to rut  “Bitches, the  _ queen  _ has come back!” There's a round of cheers from behind the blond. 

Mickey knocks the beta down on the floor as first order of business. “Yo,  _ Kristoff _ , I ain't no fucking queen. Got that, bitch?” 

Toff grin balefully from the floor. “Holy shit, dude, the hell got you so worked up? Problem with that ginger alpha on the outside.” 

“The fuck you know?” Mickey shoves at him, lighter this time no less powerful. 

They're in the yard again, basking up as much sunlight as they can as winter draws near. Their room is small as shit. Claustrophobia’s slowly  creeping up on them. It's like a fucking sardine can anywhere they go—save for the yard where mostly alphas only stay; betas and omegas usually choose indoors. 

“Fez, man, he told me. Was my roomie a while back. You just missed him. I'd say two—three weeks, tops!” Toff inhales a huge puff from his cigarette then blows out a perfect 2-layer donut. “Said something about a cute redhead comin' in to see you early in the day. Man, how come I've never seen your alpha?” 

_ Ian _ , Mickey thinks, Ian's the only redhead he knows and the alpha only came to see him once. It's a miracle that it takes his second time here for someone to mention the ginger. 

“I don't gots no alpha,” he mutters under his breath, puffing his smokes to the very end. “The fuck happened to the fucker anyway?” Unlike last time, no one's gonna be putting money in his commissary account. He better learn to prioritize his shit. Smokes are on the bottom of the list, below supps and birth control. There's no use risking that now.

“Got mated, man. Pregnant.” Beside him, Toff snorts. “Sure you don't, Mickey. The alpha I smell on you's got to be natural—so far under your skin, it sticks no matter how much you shower and scrub. Man, my nose can't be wrong. You was screwing an alpha the whole time you was out. Lucky you not knocked up! S’only a matter of time.”

“Oiy.  _ Fuck you. _ ” Mickey pushes Toff off the table where they're sitting. The blond flops to the muddy ground. “Fuck you know. Liking what I like don't make me no fucking bitch, ayt? Who say I ain't doin' the fucking, huh? Jus'cause I'm omega?” 

Toff smirks at the word ‘fucking’. “That right, Mickey? You bangin' an alpha? Don' ever think I seen an alpha who liked to be fucked.” 

Mickey hasn't seen an alpha get fucked but just thinking about Ian bent over for him—all that smooth freckled skin flexing under his palm, pert round ass taking his omega cock. What spurs him even more is the thought of  _ his _ juices coating the alpha's virgin rim. It makes him so hot under his skin—like a fire he can't stop coursing through his veins. 

He fucks Toff seven ways to Sunday, and then some, but it isn't enough. The fire's burning him from the inside out. He moves on to other betas and a handful of omegas but the  _ need _ won't be abated. It's  _ Ian _ , he realizes; he needs to fuck Ian or get fucked by Ian if he wants the craving to stop. 

Lucky him that the shithouse overcrowds easy. He doesn't get caught in any more brawls with alphas trying to screw with him. His Harlem is all too eager to trade sex for how he fucks them. Rubber's always a staple ever since. He won't risk catching any shit from them. 

When he gets out, Ian's the first person he seems out aside from double-checking on his sister on campus. He lies and tells her that he sold some coke before going in—he did—but that's just an added bonus for seeing the alpha. Sunshine calls to him, strong and aromatic, making his toes in anticipation. What he sees under the bleachers make his stomach sick instead. 

Mickey doesn't quite remember what the fuck he says, or what the fuck the faggy omega whore says back, but he remembers the rage building up in his veins. “… you're the one I gotta beat straight,”  _ so you won't even think of touching my alpha _ . 

He lets the omega run squealing like a fat little homo-pig home—if just to get Ian's attention back to him. Sunshine's richer like a hot and humid summer day in Chicago burning the dirt and grass. He smells the calm breeze that brings solstice in a heatwave. Two scents compliment each other. 

Suddenly, he wants Ian inside him  _ right fucking now _ . “Got any fuck left in your of you dump it all in that faggot's ass?” 

Ian manhandles him onto the crisscross poles under the benches. He nearly weeps at the feeling of being filled again. It's been so long—too long in Mickey's book. How Ian smells, how Ian talks, how Ian fucks; Mickey remembers all of it in great detail yet none of his memories compare to the real Ian. It's like living in technicolor then suddenly things turn black and white. 

Red. Red. Red. 

This kind of red, he remembers. 

Mickey's missed the color red—red like Ian's hair, red like Ian's freckles, red like color of Ian skin after they've fucked. It's all red—fiery hot and scorching. He can't get enough. He'll never get enough. He's a selfish as fuck motherfucker. 

Damn. It feels good to be back, to be out here in the sunshine. He can't recall why he ever though going back into juvie—why being apart from Ian—was a good idea in the first place. It must have been a some stupid-ass reason or some shit. 

Ian's in him, over him, surrounding him. The alpha would cover him from head to toe if it isn't for the open setting. Mickey holds on for dear life—literally—with a hand clutching the rails until his knuckles turn white. Ian's hands over his. Ian's thick long alpha cock sliding in and out of him, reaching places his stubbly fingers never reach. 

“Fuck, yeah, fuck,” he pants open mouthed. Six grueling months without this. How would he have survived the over half without the cock currently driving him mad. The thirst of all those months fucking around is finally abated by the tight stretch of Ian's bare flesh spearing into him.

“Harder,” Mickey demands, “C'mon, Ian, give it to me fucking  _ harder _ !” 

The next thrust sends him into the rails. There'll be a diagonal bruise over his chest tomorrow. Maybe by then he'd grow some shame but right now he just needs to feel Ian pounding into him. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Ian, c'mon! Right there. Right  _ there, _ ” he bares his teeth and growls as Ian's fat knot shoves into him. It pumps him spurt after spurt with warm alpha cum. His flat belly starts to grow after a few minutes of panting into the rails. 

Ian does what he likes doing best—burying his face into Mickey's next and inhaling like Mickey's scent is air. But today, he stiffen. “You smell different.”

Mickey stiffens as well. His gut curls uncomfortably but he doesn't speak. His scent? Fuck. Fuck. He's on supps. He shouldn't smell any fucking different. Then again, the drugs could be messing around with his body chemistry. It flares out if control and he struggles on the alpha's knot.

Ian's quick to hold him down, whispering in his ear. “Mick, Mick, stop. You'll hurt yourself. S'only a few more minutes until my knot goes down then we'll talk… just… don't… struggle…” 

It takes minutes before Mickey calms down, and less than five when the knot finally slips free. When it does, Ian keeps hold on the omega. 

“Mickey, why do you smell different?” Ian deeply inhales at the crook of Mickey's neck again. “It’s not another alpha—not even beta or omega but it's… off. Are you… are you on something?” 

Mickey bites his lip. “Birth control and supps must be messin' with my system.” Instead of anger, he smells patience from the alpha. It makes him want to hurl. He isn't used to being understood or cared for—brass knuckles and baseball bats are more his acquaintance. “You ain't mad?” 

“God, Mick, of course not,” Ian says with a blush. “I mean… I know that you could… with the amount of… that we… but I never thought… I didn't think…  _ Mick _ ,” he says earnestly, “It’s your body. I gotta respect your wishes. You hear me? No one can tell you any different.” 

Mickey turns away, hands fumbling with a pack of smokes. Ian's words are too much for him to handle. He makes it to the small clearing, free of most rails, and drops down. The lighter flicks and the first puffs taste like heaven. 

“Mick?”

He’s a coward. 

Ian sits down beside him. It's only been a couple of months but  _ damn  _ the alpha look good. He's another inch taller sitting down. His hair's cut like a jarhead. The style brings out his ever-green eyes. He's grown broader and that light green-grey shirt clings to his torso like second skin. 

“Damn.”  _ You look good. _ “That was good,” Mickey exhales. “Missed ya.” He slips up then recovers. “I had to do all the fucking  juvie. Otherwise, I'd end up as someone's bitch, right? S'nice to switch back again.”  _ Good to get fucked again _ .

Two different conversations happen at the same time. Two sides of Mickey are fighting for control. He can't tell Ian all the things he's realized while on the inside. First, he lies about overcrowding then he lies about the drugs. It's too dangerous to let his omega side win. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Mentions of Mickey/OMC. It's brief and non-graffic. Sorry!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assure you all that I **DO** read your comments. Thank you very much for the support! What I have not yet done is have the time to go over them and reply. Work has been hectic. I'm struggling to adjust to the new life as an adult. Well, anyway. WHO WATCHED EPISODE 10?! OMG. OMG. OMG. The Gallavich Scene were all re-enactment of the previous ones from season 1-4. 
> 
> _Missed me?_
> 
> *dies a fangirl*

Barely anyone comes to the store near closing. Five minutes to nine, Mickey twists the latch on the door and then flips the sign, eyes glues on Ian's through the glass. It's their little castle in a fucked up world. They have another hour for inventory and closing—which thanks to Ian's crazy head and Mickey's bizarro math-skills—now only takes fifteen minutes tops. 

“You comin', Firecrotch?” Mickey says over his shoulder as he walks to the freezer. 

Ian finishes locks the register and follows. “Not yet but it'll be soon.” 

Mickey sits down on the towel covered crate with a smirk, pants already passed his knees and his impressive erection bobbing up and down. He opens his legs as far as the pants allow, licking his lips. 

“Yeah? Gonna get on me, Firecrotch?” 

His slick's wetting the towel, more now. Steady sex with a young healthy  _ virile _ alpha confuses his body into mating-like qualities—tender tits, horny all the fucking time, and  _ wet _ down his shins whenever he so much as smells Ian. The constant alpha contact helps him control the omega scent on his skin. He smells like  _ Ian _ most of the time. 

“Not yet,” Ian tells him confidently. “I’m gonne finger you ‘til you come then I'll fuck you full until you come again, Mick. Want to smell you on me for days.” Apparently, Ian can scent Mickey's natural scent under the drugs through cum. It should be disgusting but it isn't. 

Mickey's inner omega likes the possessive gesture. His stomach does a lot of faggy Summersaulting. He remembers the time when Ian couldn't wait to get his scent off. Maybe it's changed now?

“Hurry up then! I ain't fucking high school.” 

“Is that a challenge, Mick?” Ian asks, sliding between the omega's pale legs, hands hot like coal. Sunshine and wind fill the tiny space, wrapping them both in a bubble of security. He grins all soft and gentle-like. In here, they are the only two people that matter. They’ve learned from their past mistakes. There’s no way Frank or anyone else can get through those doors  without them knowing. 

“Tch. Whatever it takes for you to get on me,” Mickey grits out. His fingers clench onto the towels under him. If he doesn’t hold on, he’ll do something stupid like grab Ian by the back of the neck and pull him down for a kiss. Nowadays, he’s at constant odds with his inner omega for control. It’s too dangerous with Terry out of the can. 

Ian licks a wet stripe up his neck. The alpha’s been doing that more and more lately; obsessing with his neck, and maybe Mickey kind of likes the way those  _ fuck me _ lips tease his mating gland—almost as if Ian wants it. That’s impossible. It’s just Ian’s stupid teenage hormones fucking up his brain. 

“Get this off.”

Hands attack his pants. Before he knows it, Mickey’s completely naked in the fucking freezer. It’s a miracle he hasn’t gotten sick yet. Ian touches him all over—with hands, lips, and tongue. He shivers at the attention. No one’s fucked him slow like this before… like he’s cherished.

“Fuck, c’mon,  _ Ian _ ,” he uses that name like a weapon now. Ian never could resist him when he uses the name like that. “ _ Ian _ , fuck me.” 

Ian smiles under Mickey’s jaw, nipping at the burgeoning of a stubble. “Beard’s growing again, Mick, you need a shave,” he says so casually as if his hands aren’t on Mickey’s cock and his fingers aren’t on Mickey’s ass. “I want you to enjoy this. Let  _ me _ enjoy this.” 

Then, without warning, Ian’s mouth closes over Mickey’s nipple. Mickey’s whole body arches at the foreign sensation. Sure his tits have been more sensitive but he never explored it like some girl. Now though, with Ian sucking him like a starving baby, he realizes how much he’s been missing out. It’s an odd sort of feeling having lips sucking at his nipples but it feels right. 

“Ian,” he pants without meaning to. He’s reduced to whimpers and pleas as Ian play’s his body to the tune of pleasure-riled symphony. “Ian, fuck! Fingers… fingers!” 

One, two fingers enter him in succession. Prep’s barely needed at this point. They fuck nearly every day, twice on slow days. At this point, Ian can shove his whole cock inside and Mickey would only feel a pleasurable burn at his rim. He’s addicted to the knot at the base of that monstrous nine inches.

Ian finds his prostate quickly, then presses it without abandon. Mickey throws his head back and  _ howls _ as loud as he can. No one’s here. No one will hear him even if he shouts. It’s too late in the night for people to even care. He could be some random omega getting fucked in a back alley for all they care. He certainly doesn’t. 

Something happens then—they come at the same time; Ian’s staring into Mickey’s face and Mickey stares right back.

Fuck.

It scares Mickey shitless. After the knot slips out, he bolts away from Ian’s arms. He can’t get away fast enough. That look in Ian’s eyes. Mickey ain’t no stupid shit. He been seeing it for a few months now. He was hoping that it could go away—fade away somehow how. Truth’s out. Ian still hasn’t gotten over the little  _ crush _ , and Mickey’s gone and done it—got soft, got stupid. 

It’ll ruin them. 

Worse, it’ll ruin  _ Ian _ . 

He can’t let that happen. 

Iggy and him go on a drug-run cross-country. They buy five grand worth of weed in a multitude of qualities—the most being the low-grade $20 that Russians import by the crate. The drop of point is somewhere near the Mexican border. It takes them a solid week back and forth. By then, they both stink to hell. The rusty car need to be fumigated to get rid of their stench. 

Just when he thought he’s out of the woods, Mandy cons him into the neighborhood anti-pedo squad. There’s some sick prick out there who screw kids as a hobby. Mickey’s down with a lot of things but that kind of psycho-shit ain’t one of them. 

_ Ian _ ’s part of the team—with Lip. The so-called offenders turns out to be an old alpha female. Needless to say, they don’t get through with the plan. Lip spews nonsense about justice and shit. Ian and Mickey both know he secretly wants to bang the girl. 

“Smell that?” He asks as they go to onto the street. 

Mickey smells himself on instinct. “The fuck you talkin’ about?” He sniffs at his pits. Nothing smells odd about him. It’s not him, so he fakes it. “S’tat teacher smell? Pretty fucking good man. I’m getting wood just thinking about that. Smells like she drowned in roses or some shit.” 

Lip visibly scents the air. “It’s not her.” He’s a fucking omega and his nose is pretty decent. 

Angie Zago’s conveniently sitting on her porch.

Mickey sees an out. “Yo, Angie!” He calls out. “You wanna fuck?” When she answers in the positive, he can feel Ian’s eyes burning holes at the back of his skull. He goes into her house but he doesn’t fuck her. He can’t. She isn’t Ian. 

“Why you gotta come on to be if you got an alpha, huh?” Angie asks him. It isn’t offensive and prying like others would but curious. No judgement in her eyes. For a beta, she’s got a good sense of smell.  Her living room smells like booze, cheetos, and weed—the standard in Southside homes. He kind of wishes he that he knows what the Gallagher house smells like. 

“The fuck you talkin?” He lies through her teeth. 

Angie hands him the whiskey bottle wrapped in a cheap paper bag instead of answering. “Fine. Don’t talk about it. But we gotta do somethin ‘cause you’re wasting my time.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to react. Sure, he’s grown up with Southside chicks like Mandy but he never really hung out with any of them before. It’s seven levels of weird for him. They’re sitting on a couch that looks like it was stolen from a retirement home and a DIY table made of pizza boxes. 

“He’s not my alpha,” he ends up confessing. 

“Why?” There she goes, asking so innocently again. 

Mickey grabs the bottle in her hand and down half in one go. “Cause my dad would fucking kill him if he ever finds out.” 

Angie stands up, disappears presumably to the kitchen, then comes back with an even large bottle of alcohol. She says nothing as she trades the convenience store crap with the really good stuff from Mickey’s hands. They drink their fill in booze—in silent understanding. Everyone’s got their own messed up story in this neighborhood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has got load of angst built-up from the last few months.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know your heart broke during last Sunday's episode. Mine too. There's going to me stories upon stories of writers trying to write fix-its. It ain't never going to be enough because they KILLED US all over again. So, I give you this--a fluffy ABO version of what their story _should've_ been like. We're pretty canon-compliant up to now. So, if you've been reading this, you know what to expect. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this up to now. I hope that I meet your expectations~

Mandy's gonna be a senior in the coming school year and she needs new shit. Bitch thinks that just because he's got a real job now means that he's fucking Oprah now with all the things she  _ needs _ . Tch. Half that stuff's useless shit like new make-up or a  _ first day of school _ new outfit. She's been taking care of him during heats. This is only a way of paying her back. 

His customer what's-his-name come into the store looking like a washed-up skater dude. Immediately, Ian's alpha scent rises in disapproval. The much younger alpha flinches. A tiny part of Mickey grows wet at the display of dominance. 

“Buy something,” he mutters, closing the boring magazine. The young alpha picks a back of gum from the countertop. Mickey takes the coffee cup with low-grade weed and drops it into the trash, signaling with his eyebrows. Knothead looks fucking lost. 

“Am I supposed to…?” the kid stutters. 

“Pick it up,” Mickey answers the same time Ian says, “Maybe you should just leave. You need what little brain cells you have left.” 

The fuck? “Why you gotta mess with my business, man?”  _ Don't ya know what kinda expensive shit Mandy wants and the pills cost?  _ He glares at Ian. 

“Well, stop doing  _ your  _ business in  _ my store _ .” Ian tells him. Fuck, if that doesn't feel like a punch to the gut. 

Mick plays it off casually. “Then, uh, what will you go down for?” He's already half way to the freezer when Ian speaks again. 

“Hey, few days ago, did you really fuck Angie?”

Trust Ian to get all up in his face for keeping cover. In this side of Chicago, no one survives being  _ out and proud _ even if they’re being discreet. Fag-bashing’s a nightly occurrence. It’s a miracle—or maybe all that JROTC training—that has kept Ian safe until now. 

Mickey lies through his pearly white teeth about being cool with the idea of Ian fucking Angie. Thank  _ something _ that his supps hold up, and his scent doesn’t give him away. He’s still on the same stuff that Iggy gave him nearly a year ago. That and the birth control’s really fucking with his  head. Ian  _ thankfully _ lets the issue slide—or he lets Mickey think. 

It’s near four when the viagroid walks into the store. At first, Mickey doesn’t give two shits about him because he’s finishing up a coke deal. The old asshat smells sickeningly of alpha-enhancers and synthetic pheromones that Mickey’s stomach gets sick. He isn’t exactly subtle when he pops his lips at the word “gingersnap”. 

Mickey wants to  _ snap _ his fucking head off, but that would break his probation. “You got a receipt,” he says instead, standing at full height and letting his muscles show. Ian, the fucker, hands it to the asshole. His gut curls at the action. He wants to rip the rich Northside faggot into pieces.

Ian’s just sitting on the chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking smug as fuck. 

If the thought of Ian fucking Angie got his guts twisting, the thought with Ian fucking  _ another alpha _ makes him want to vomit. He holds that it. An alpha with another alpha. It makes absolutely no sense. How the fuck would that even work without the natural slick? To top it off, Ian’s scent is thicker than it was this morning. 

Fuck. 

Closing hour rolls around and he makes sure to get Ian in the freezers fucking  _ him _ . His plan only works for all of two minutes when Ian’s doing up his pants and putting his shirt back on. God, those muscles should be illegal on an alpha like him. Mickey’s still gaping hole is practically dripping with a new wave of slick. 

“So, uh, you really meeting with that pill-popping grandpa?” He bites his lip. It’s unfair how he’s the one always getting fully naked while all Ian throw off is his shirt. Redressing always takes twice as long. He hopes that the way he’s putting his hole on display would convince the alpha to stay for round number three. The store’s closed and no one’s coming. 

Ian shakes his head. “Can’t. Got a date.” 

“You serious?” Mickey all but sputters. “So that’s it, huh? Fancy car, fancy food, and fancy beer get you all hot now, Gallagher?” 

“It’s a  _ date _ , Mick, maybe you’ve heard about it.” Ian rolls his eyes and fixes himself through the freezer glass. “It’s a thing usually  _ do _ when they wanna fuck someone else.”

Mickey bites his lip. “Why they gotta do that? Ain’t bangin’ the good part?” It’s the wrong thing to say because Ian turns his back to him, shoulders slumped. 

“Of course it’s the good part but sometimes it’s good to have a little build-up, ya know? Urgh. I don’t understand why I’m even trying to explain this to you. You obviously don’t care about banging outside this fucking freezer!” Ian huffs, slamming the door as he goes, leaving Mickey with the whizz of the freezer surrounding him. 

“Fuck!” 

The Fountain’s one of the faggiest gay pubs on the Northside. It’s posh too. After Ian left, Mickey easily follows the path he took by scent alone. Three years of doing this dance, and his nose had gotten pretty good at tracking Ian’s scent when the redhead doesn’t bother to cover it. He sees Ian and the viagroid sitting on high-chairs  _ giggling _ like a bunch of school girls. The asshole fucking  _ touches  _ Ian on his neck. 

Cold beer tastes like piss water when he sips. He waits it out, telling the time by the number of smokes he stomps onto the ground. His feet is littered with charted smudges by the time Ian and  _ his date _ walk out of the bar. 

The wind carries the happy sunshine scent mingling with nauseating old man balls smell. If that isn’t bad enough, the doucheface has the audacity to call Mickey “boyfriend” to Ian’s face. He absolutely loses it. Red. Red. Red. He sees red but not the good kind of red. It’s blood, this asshole’s blood, that he wants to see painting the concrete red. 

“Mickey, stop!” Ian karate-chops him on the throat and he goes falling down. 

“Shit, Gallagher!” Despite the pain on his neck, Mickey runs. “C’mon,  _ Gallagher _ !” 

He’s juvie record won’t seal for another six months. They catch him now and it’s straight back into that shithole. He doesn’t think he can really be away from Ian for that long—he’s like an addict with Ian as his poison of choice. Ian’s loud footfalls are following behind him, and that’s all he holds onto until they’re in a backalley that no one would care to check. 

Ian shoves him into a wall, eyes alpha-red. “What the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you?” It’s the hottest fucking thing that Mickey’s seen in his life. For a second, Mickey thinks that this is how he should die—in the hands of the one person he doesn’t think can hurt him. It’s the latter that rules his thoughts. 

Mickey does the only thing he can think of—he grabs Ian by the back of his neck and has every intention of pulling the alpha in for a kiss, but he redirects his lips at the last second. Instead of Ian's lips, Mickey's find Ian's pulse point at the juncture of neck and shoulder then licks his way to the small bump of the mating gland. Ian's whole body shudders. 

“You like that?” He pants wetly into Ian's ear. 

Ian presses his harder against the wall, head tilting away. “Yeah,” he answers breathlessly while baring his neck. “ _ Mickey _ .” 

Mickey keeps mouthing at the alpha's gland. It's the first time he's gotten to touch Ian like this. His nose picks up on the faint smell of another alpha on Ian's skin, and his inner omega  _ wails _ with disapproval. He licks it away clean, rubbing his cheek on Ian's neck and jaw until Ian smells like  _ him _ . 

“ _ Mickey _ ,” Ian says the omega's name like he's drowning. Large hands cup Mickey's backside and pulling their half-chubs together. 

Mickey lifts his leg to Ian's hips to fix the angle. They both moan together. There's fumbling— _ who _ doesn't matter as long as they're both out of their jeans and rubbing wetly again each other. 

“Fuck!” Ian groans out loud, sounding like he gargled gravel. 

Mickey nips the freckled jaw. “Shut up,” he hisses, using one hand around the cocks and the other on Ian's hair. His lips work on sucking a mark mere inches from Ian's mating gland. He works them until the blood's as close to the surface as possible without breaking skin. Even then, he isn't finished. His tongue licks over the sensitive flesh. 

“You're fucking crazy.” Ian pulls away with a laugh. “We got from freezer to backalleys. Are you allergic to a bed or something? ‘Cause I remember our first time being in that squeaky bed of yours.” 

Mickey pulls a face. “Oiy, fuck you complaining about when I got my hand ln your dick?” 

“Your fist barely fits both of us, Mick,” Ian says in a matter-of-fact tone. To prove his point, he wraps his own fist around their cocks. The size difference is more notable when their hands are side by side. 

Mickey punches his lightly on the shoulder. “You gonna get on me, Firecrotch? Or you gonna get us off like this?” 

“Or like this,” Ian replies, licking a stripe up Mickey's neck. “Why you gotta go beat Lloyd up, huh? You jealous?” 

“F—fuck no,” Mickey  _ does not  _ whimper when Ian twists his hand. Heat pools between them. Not even the coolness of the brick behind him helps even out the temperature. Ian, the showboating fucker, lifts him bodily off the ground. 

“You were,” Ian insists. “You beat  _ an alpha _ to a bloody pulp. That goes against everything in your biology. Why?” 

Mickey squirms, hating how unfair of an interrogation technique using sex is. “The fuck you wanna know, asshole?”

“The truth.” Ian's teeth skirt up the column of Mickey's neck, making the omega shudder in his arms. 

A dam break, and Mickey spills. “Cause you  _ mine _ ,” he growls, finger leaving bruises on the alpha's shoulders. “You’re fucking  _ mine _ , Gallagher— _ Ian. _ Not that grampa's, or any other queen you've been fucking.  _ Mine _ , got that?” 

“Got it,” Ian answers with a grin reaching up to his ears. “I’m yours, Mick.” 

Thank god Mickey isn't due for another heat anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you liked or enjoyed this fic, you should know what to do. **Comment/Kudos/Bookmarks** are always appreciated by this author. One of the reasons I haven't left is because I love reading all your comments~ 
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Yes,** I am alive but unfortunately not very well. Some of you may have wondered where I've been hiding since Christmas. Around 3-4 months, I think. It was an episode. I couldn't even lift my head off the pillow for days as a time. For the most part, I don't remember what happened while I was drawn inside myself. It's been a challenge getting back here on this site again. It's not too long but I hope, for those of you still reading, that you enjoy it. I will get back to reading the comments and replying again in dew time. 
> 
> As always, your words of love and support are encouragement enough to continue writing this. 
> 
> Best,  
> ArmyC

Telling Mandy the truth ends up being Mandy finding them in Mickey's bed the following morning. Mickey wakes up with a start. The first thing he notices are the arms wrapped around his waist. Ian's warm sunshine smell fills the space between the bed and the blanket, cocooning Mickey in the alpha's scent. He doesn't want to leave it. For once in his life, his urge to flee doesn’t come until he sees his sister's shocked face by the doorway.

“Mandy? The fuck you doin' in my room, skank?” Mickey growls in annoyance, temporarily forgetting about the alpha behind him but Ian's arms tighten around him and a breathy “Mick” is whispered in his ear. He shivers at the gravelly timbre. Ian’s voice is like honey sweet and Mickey likes sweet things. Right now, he regrets that fact that he’s powerless to push the alpha off him.

“Mickey?” Mandy's voice cuts through the silence like a knife. With an exagerrated gasp, she points a finger at the redhead. “ _Ian_? What are you doin’ in bed with my brother?”

Behind Mickey, Ian blinks awake—oblivious to the rising tension. “Mands? Whatcha doin here?”

“I _live_ here, Ian. Think you maybe forgot about that little detail since you're _fucking_ my brother? In _our_ fucking house? On _his_ fucking bed!” Even for a beta, she's a force to be reckoned with. “So all this _I kinda have a boyfriend_ thing… it's been _Mickey_ this whole time?”

Mickey's frozen at her tone. Trust Gallagher to spew their business all over town. Moreover, his traitorous inner omega is preening that the alpha’s _been talking about him_. Ian somehow realizes that they're naked under the sheets and pulls the covers over Mickey's shoulders. Only then does he look Mandy in the eyes to address her.

“Yepp,” he says in a smug tone. “Guess he doesn't hate me after all. Great, right?” Mickey freezes from where he’s lying down, back to Ian’s chest, the thin fraying blanket as his only shield. It smells like _them_ under the covers—like a breezy summer day. Ian’s musk fills his brain with a headiness that is dangerous.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Mandy flips her purple hair over her shoulder. “Gotta piss or whatever. Mickey, dad and Iggy are coming back tomorrow so you might wanna air out the room. Smells like a brothel in here.” Then, she closes the bathroom door with a _click_.

Only then does Mickey unwind. He rolls his eyes after a loud exhale. “Fuckin’ bitch should mind her own fucking business.” He turns over under the sheets and nuzzles Ian's armpit. It's the second place with the strongest scent and he can't get enough of it. Ian's always smelled like sunshine but now he smells _unavailable_ as well. That's due to the partial imprint of Mickey's teeth on the alpha's inner arm.

“Hmm.” Ian settles down beside Mickey. “She’s just trying to help.”

“The fuck she talkin about anyway? Goin' out or some shit?” Mickey goes into his elbows, half on top of Ian's chest.

Ian palms the omega's back, fingers slipping to the curve of Mickey's ass then dipping inside the sloppy hole. “It’s _kinda seeing someone_ , and I'm seeing you right now, aren't I, Mick? I see that eyebrow thing you like doing when you're thinking. See? Right… _there!_ ” He presses his finger to Mickey's brow, grinning like a large puppy.

“Oiy, off! That finger's just been in my ass, fucker!”

“So's my tongue after I rimmed you  but you had no problem sucking it last night. What's with the change of heart, Mick?”

Mickey turns red at the statement. “Whatever, douche.” He punches Ian on the arm for good measure, right at his bite mark. The alpha hisses from the pain. Serves the fucker right for even thinking that fucking’s made Mickey less of a badass.

“Jesus, guys!” Mandy steps out of the bathroom, trying hard to fake annoyance. “I'm going to get fucking _cavities_ from watching you two. Get a fucking room!”

Mickey throws an empty beer can her way. “This _is_  my fucking room, bitch!” It’s off mark because, of course, he wouldn’t really hurt his sister. _Clang!_ Metal thuds against the doorknob before the can falls to the ground.

“Fine!” Mandy rolls her eyes the crosses her arms over her chest. “Look I'm kind glad you got your shit sorted out but dad and Iggy are really gonna be home tomorrow night so you better clean up.” She looks at Ian with pleading eyes  “He might just be a beta but you still don't wanna mess with him. If he can't kill you, he'll kill Mickey for being an omega.”

Ian stares at her in surprise. “You dad doesn't know?” Beside him, Mickey's gone stiff as a board.

“No,” Mandy shakes her head. “Fucker’s gotten his nose broken too many times. His sense of smell is weak but it's there. So, yeah, better be sure than risk it.” She closes the door behind her when she leaves. “See you, douchebags, I'm sleeping at a girl friend's tonight.”

Just like that, Mickey and Ian are left alone for the rest of the day.

Eventually—after two, three rigorous rounds of sex—they venture into the kitchen for breakfast or lunch or early dinner. Doesn’t really matter as long as it’s food in their stomachs.Deciding it's the perfect time to air out the whole house, they open all the windows while the food is being prepared. All of it feels oddly domestic.

Ian does the cooking, claiming that “Breakfast is easy. I can do that. But I might burn down the house if you make me cook anything else. It's just eggs and toast.” He does it in all his naked glory covered up by an ugly-ass apron because he’s attached to his junk and he prefers it unburned thank you very much.

Mickey's left with the cleaning which, really, isn't much given that the house is perpetually in disarray. He just throws shit like beer cans, old pizza boxes and takeaways, and empty containers in the trash. Since Ian's fighting with the stove, he figure's he'll spruce up his room as well. He finds a box of his old sex toys under his bed, and gets and idea.

“Yo, Gallagher!” He bellows from his room. There's a muffled “What?” that follows.

Mickey walks out with a string of heavy black Ben Wa beads in his hands. Green eyes look over him, from  his face to his feet than up again, taking in his similar nakedness. He wiggles his eyebrows when he sees and _smells_ Ian's reaction to the toy. _Click_ , the stove is forcibly turned off.

It's encouraging.

“Bought these when I didn't have an alpha to fuck me through my heats. Wanna try it out?”

“What does it do?” Ian asks from the other side of the counter, plating up the badly made omelet that looks more like scrambled eggs. His whole face conveys exactly how much he lost care for the food because there’s something else he’d rather be tasting.

Mickey shrugs, placing the beads on the counter with a clatter. “You shove'em up my ass, then you pull'em back out.” He lists his face to meet Ian’s eyes and sees heat there, eyes lining up with red.

“Ah-huh.” Ian takes the beads, runs his long pale fingers over each one, then cocks an eyebrow at Mickey. “How’s _that_ fun for me, exactly?”

“I dunno, man.” Mickey makes grabby hands for it. “Oiy, if you don't want'em then I'll do it myself. Don't have to use'em today.”

Ian drags the beads across the countertop right next to the plate of eggs then leans over to peck Mickey on the lips. He lowers his voice, “I was thinking of something else that you might wanna do today.”

“Yeah?” Goosebumps rise all over Mickey's flesh. He licks his lips. “Whatcha got in mind, Firecrotch?

“I was thinking…” Ian walks his fingers over the hand Mickey has on the counter, trailing it up until he's touching Mickey's ear. “…after breakfast… maybe you'd like to try fucking me today?”

A fresh wave of slick _pours_ down Mickey's legs.

Ian chuckles. “That a yes?”

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey can’t say fast enough.

They demolish the food in record time, then they're sprinting back to Mickey's room.

Ian takes his sweet time taking Mickey apart—starting off with the omega’s lips, egg breath be damned. He kisses Mickey like he's starved, and maybe he is since they're been banging for nearly three years, off and on, at this point. He knows the intricacies of Mickey's body except for this one. Kissing is new.

Mickey lets himself get into it—trusting Ian's lips to bend him to the alpha's willing. The slide of their tongues together make him spark from the inside out. His legs haplessly apart to accommodate Ian's stronger broader build between them. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. He feels all those lighting up his skin on fire.

The positions are reversed though. He’s all but willing to get Ian inside him again but the alpha’s promise echoes in his mind. With a growl, he hooks his legs onto Ian's hips and rolls them over. Then, _Jesus,_ Ian underneath him looks like heaven in earth—ready to be debauched. Mickey's inner omega sings in joy with having _his_ alpha finally with him.

“Ian,” he moans brokenly, licking up and down Ian’s neck like the alpha enjoys doing to him. The taste of salty alpha hits his tongue. His mouth waters at the taste—thirsty for it. “Fuck, I want you. I wanna bury my fucking cock inside you. Wanna feel your heat around me, yeah?” He mumbles as he places small kitten licks on the bobbing Adam’s apple.

Ian keens, baring his neck submissively. It isn’t a gesture common to alphas but it comes naturally from him. “Fuck, Mick, the mouth in you is filthy.” He grabs Mickey by the back of the neck and kisses him again. His long pale freckled legs spread wide. “Gonna be so good for you, omega, gonna come in your cock. Let me knot your fist, alright?”

“Fuck yeah.” Mickey grins. “I am gonna fuck you so good, _alpha_.”

The title pushes Ian of the edge. Mickey's never said the word without distaste before, and he just said it like being an alpha was an honor. The low burning arousal that he woke up with this morning starts to burn steadily inside him. It courses through his veins staring from his very core, spreading outwards—to his toes, to his fingers, to his tongue. He licks every inch of exposed skin.

Under him, Ian falls apart in an incoherent mess. “Mickey, Mickey,” is all he says, over and over again like Mickey’s name is a prayer.

For the second time in his life, Mickey's inner omega preens at seeing an alpha utterly debauched by him. He still wants more—more of Ian’s noises, more of Ian’s touches, more of Ian coming undone because _he’s_ the one giving the alpha pleasure. His hands move with minds of their own, touching Ian everywhere.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still a process. I was out for 2-weeks last April to try and get back my inspiration. So, far, it's not working out as I hoped. I do still have a couple more chapters written in this story. Sadly though, it's so few that I'm reluctant to post them. I fear that it'll run out and stop where it currently is. That would be embarrassing to all of you. For now, though, I had enough fuel to finish up this chapter and get it posted. I wish you all enjoy it as I did while writing it. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated~

Mickey’s never fucked an Alpha before. Sure, he’s been fucking Ian since the redhead had freckles on his nose—not that those were gone though less prominent now—but he’s never _fucked_ Ian. He’s been _fucked by_ so many times. Just the thought of it makes him slick-up puddles; and now, he’s got a tall hunk pure alpha of muscle panting underneath him. His bed will never be the same again. It’ll forever hold the scent of the alpha’s between its fibers. Mickey secretly hopes it’ll never fade.

“Mick!” Ian squirms when the omega pinches his nipples. He lets out another full-body shudder. “Mickey, _god_ , what the fuck are you doing to me?”

“ _Relax,_ ” Mickey coaxes with a devilish tone, capturing a pert pink nipple between his pink lips. “ _I got you_ isn’t that what you told me before? _I’ve_ got you now, Ian. Relax for me.” For emphasis, he runs his small pale hands up and down Ian’s flushed sides. Flesh feels so hot under his palms—a pleasant shade of red covering the expanse of fair skin.

Ian whimpers at his words. For an alpha standing six-feet and five-inches, he looks like a naïve puppy when he’s lying down on Mickey’s bed exposing himself to the omega. None of his alpha bravado rises to the surface now. Only surrender reflects in his entire countenance. A foot arch runs up the back of Mickey’s thighs, forcing the brunette to look up.

“Come on, Mick, _get on me_.” he borrows the omega’s favorite phrase with a smirk. His hands move over his leaking cock. He’s so fucking hard fight now. The effect on his partner is immediate.

Mickey  inhales deeply at the sight of Ian touching himself. He reaches down between Ian’s legs, past the fiery red bush he often jokes about and the large balls which slap against his cheeks when they fuck, to the small untouched furl of Ian’s opening. It’s blazing hot—nearly hotter than Ian’s cock—and pulses to his touch. He can’t help but feel the awe rising in his gut when Ian opens his legs even wider to let him see it.

“ _Christ_ ,” he breathes out, utterly speechless. Ian normally smells like afternoon sunlight, and he smells even better up close. Sweat. Scent. Sweetness. It’s the musk of Ian Gallagher that smells like he’s Mickey's alpha. Of course, those thoughts are pushed to the back of Mickey’s mind.

A dry finger rubs the ring of muscles again. Ian’s whole body reacts to the sensation, toes curling on the back of Mickey’s thighs. It’s dry. It should be. Only omegas have natural lubrication. At the back of his head, Mickey knows what to do—get fucking lube—but instead he freezes with the tip of his finger teasing at the hole just to see his alpha squirm.

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian’s broken cry breaks his thought.  “Fuck. Fuck. Lube. We need lube. Mick, where’s the fucking lube? ” He throws his head down, whole body shaking in frustration. “FUCK!” His eyes squeeze shut, wetness clinging to his brow and lashes.  They need lube. Like _Yesterday._

Mickey kisses his alpha quiet. “Oiy,” he whispers tenderly, offering one of his rare smiles. “When I say _I got you_ ; I mean, I got you, ayt?” He's doing his best to appease Ian's need. The burning from the core out—he knows how that feels. Up until now, he never really cared if he hurt his partners during sex but it's different with Ian. He wants it to be good. Better than good. He wants his alpha panting in pleasure under him.

Ian's big green eyes are staring at him, brimming with tears. Winter, Spring, and Fall cease to exist in Ian’s eyes. Only an endless summer remains.

“Mick?” The alpha call weakly.

Mickey bites his lips and breaks their gaze, avoiding Ian’s eyes. The next part's pretty embarrassing even for him. Others either came prepared or settled for lube. Pain’s not a risk he’s willing to take with Ian.  No, not ever. Red-faced, he reaches behind and slips his fingers inside of himself, getting them wet.

Ian’s beautiful green eyes widen like saucers when he sees.

Mickey brings back his  fingers, glistening with his omega slick.

“God, Mickey!” The alpha’s scent flares anew. It spreads wall-to-wall in Mickey's tiny bedroom, reeking of arousal. _Want._ _Need. Now._ Green eyes staring at the omega, shining with stars.  His lashes glistening with unshed tears. “Is that your? … you’re? _Fuck_. That’s so fucking hot. I can’t believe you’d use you’re—” His face colors to match his hair.

“Shutup!” Mickey snarls. His blush mirrors Ian’s. “Fuck, it is. S'my first time usin' this so so shutup! S’not like Imma use it for someone else. S’cause s’you.” It is, however, not his first time using his slick on his cock. He’s tried it before but it always felt quite wrong. The wrongness feels inconsequential right now when Ian’s looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters. It’s scary how much he’s willing overlook for his alpha.

Ian bites his lip like he wants to say something. In the end, he shakes his legs and presents his ass more. Both of them hold their breath. The first finger slides in. Inch by inch, it disappears.

Mickey opens Ian up, nice and slow, adding more is his slick and licking at Ian's face. Salty tears prickle his tongue. He doesn’t falter. _Prod. Twist. Slick_ . He’s never this patient with his own prep. _Spread. Tease. Circle._

It feels like forever until the alpha's loose enough to take his knotless cock. There’s a rush as his slick-coated fingers massage Ian’s tightly furled rim. Inside feels soft and hot and _perfect_. It makes all his good blood run south. He doesn’t know if he’ll have enough blood in his brain to fully function.

“ _Mick_ , I think… I think I’m good now. _Mickey, your cock.”_ The last words are growled with a hint of impatience because _of course_ Ian is an impatient motherfucker.

Instincts kick in. He ushers Ian his back. Ian looks a little hurt.

“S’gonna make it easier for ya.” He tries to explain. “Imma make it good. It’ll hurt the first time.”

The stubborn alpha shakes his head. “I don’t care. I wanna see your face.” He reaches for Mickey’s cock, the tips of his finger brushing against the purpling head. “This is fine.”

 _Sentimental idiot_ , Mickey thinks, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. The alpha smiles back shyly. “Ayt, fine. Put your gigantor legs on my shoulders then. Up-up.” He pats Ian's thighs until the alpha positions his legs. First the left, then the right; Ian’s open and exposed to him, and Mckey's harder than he’s ever been in his entire life. Fingers trace up and down the side of Ian’s legs in an attempt to soothe the remaining jitters.

“Mick.”

Ian's arms reach out for him as he pushes in. He goes in slowly. Even with all that prep, the alpha's so fucking tight around him. It feels like he’s forcing his cock into the eye of a sewing needle. His eyes keep meeting Ian's, silently asking for permission. Heat gathers between their curled bodies, making him sweat like a pig, sheets clinging to his damp legs. Not even the steady breeze from the open window alleviates the rise in temperature.

“You good?” Mickey needs to ask, wanting to do this good.

“I’m good,” Ian says even if his erection flags a little. “Don't stop, Mick.”

Mickey doesn’t. He goes in slow but surely, inch by torturous inch, and just as slowly Ian opens up to him. The tight rim _flutters_ around his cock as he slides in. A moan punches out of them both when he finally bottoms out, thigh against thigh, balls against Ian's freckled cheeks.

“S’good. S'tight.” He presses their foreheads together. “S’like I'm gonna fucking melt inside. _Fuck_.”

Ian grins. “That’s the point, right?” he says, tilting his hips. “Oh Jesus, _yes!_ ”

Mickeys starts a punishing pace. He can only go so long with the vise-like grip Ian's got on his cock. It’s like Ian’s trying to pull his fucking dick off. They fumble, Ian’s legs awkwardly sliding off Mickey’s sweaty shoulder. Mickey’s damp hands barely do anything to help. The headboard rocks with every thrust.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

They don’t care for the noise since they’re alone.

“Stop squeezing me!” Mickey grits out, eyes screwing shut. The angle’s hard to control. HIs arms are shaking with the effort to hold down his weight along with half of Ian’s. The suction on his cock in unbelievably tight. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to blow. “Fucking relax, Ian. S'gonna be over before we get to the fun part.”

“I thought _this_ was already the fun part?” Ian pants into his ear, wiggling his ass. Mickey can practically _hear_ the grin playing on the alpha’s lips. Ian, on the other hand, runs his hands soothingly over the omega’s back. “Oh fuck there! Right fucking there!” His legs curl around Mickey’s shoulder to pull the brunette closer.

 _Ian, Ian, Ian._ Mickey’s head chants the name on repeat.

This very moment is what he’s been fantasizing about from the second he got out of juvie. It’s Ian underneath him—submissive and pliant. He knows it’s not normal for him to want this but he does. No other alpha would out themselves in such a position for a person of his status, and yet Ian is so willingly spreading his legs got him.

He smells amazing.

Mickey can’t get enough. It’s dizzying—sunshine, and summer, and happiness all rolling into one. The pleasure builds on his cock, inside his balls, curling in his stomach. It’s a slow-burning sensation that steadily bringing his whole body up to a boil, and he’s taking Ian with him.

Mickey keeps pounding until his knees shake. “Ian!” He wraps a hand around Ian's cock and feels the thick base between his fingers.

“M—Mickey!” Ian comes, painting their stomachs white. “ _Fuck,_ my knot. Mickey, my fucking knot!”

Mickey's hands instinctively wrap around Ian's pulsing hot knot, massaging it. It's insane how much cum spreads across their stomachs. Ian keeps going, writhing on his lap, with his cock continuously pumping thick cum. Mickey's mouth waters at the scent of it.

Ian comes down from the high. “Shit, Mick, that was…” he breathlessly trails off. Like an idiot, there's a big fucking smile on his lips. He pull the omega closer, licking up and down Mickey's neck—onto the spot that would be swollen during heat. “Thank you.”

“The fuck you thanking me for? This ain't no pity fuck.” Mickey eyes him with disgust. “Shove that thank you up your ass.”

Ian laughs and Mickey feels it where they're joined together. “I know it ain't, asshole…” then, he goes all shy again. “I’m sayin' that you were gentle. I… I really didn't think that it would feel that good having something up there. It never felt good when I tried it with my finger.” He blushes. “But yours felt really good.”

“Yeah, well…” Mickey looks away in embarrassment. “Don’ want this to be the only time, ayt? So… s'good?” He asks, because prep and knot-work may have his fingers a little cramp-y.

Ian wraps a hand on Mickey's neck and pulls him down for long kiss—tongue, teeth, and everything.

Mickey opens his mouth and allows Ian to fuck his mouth with all that alpha gusto that he relinquished only moments ago. There's no illusions who controls the kiss despite how they're still connected. Another wave of cum spurts from Ian's cock, warming their cooling bodies all over again. He's all too content to bask in the alpha's attention.

“It was good,” Ian says, nipping Mickey's ear. “You wanna try that rosary for giants?”

 _Yes, yes, yes!_ Mickey’s head wants to say but he ends up saying “Ayy, maybe not ‘night. Gotta fuckin’ sleep first,” he says, pressing their foreheads together. All his muscles are aching in the best way possible. It’s a good thing that they don’t have to wait out his knot. He’s falling asleep as it is.

Ian seems to sense this. The alpha graciously nudges Mickey back. He’s open and sloppy. The action causes his to hiss ever so slightly. A trail of cum keeps them connected. Mickey’s staring at it and he’s staring at Mickey.

“Come on, Mick,” he ushers softly, “You can help me clean up tomorrow.”

Mickey goes boneless above Ian, and let’s the alpha arrange them so they can sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd you like that for some alpha-loving?


	12. Chapter 12

For a while, it's good—hell, better than anything Mickey could have expected. They date in secret in-between the store, the dugout, and their houses. Mandy keeps up the pretense of being Ian's beard so his frequent presence in the Milkovich house goes unnoticed by Terry. Iggy takes one smell after another week-long drug run and gives Mickey a larger bottle of birth control pills, making the omega punch him on the arm.

They still rarely meet at the Gallagher house. There’s just too many eyes and ear all over the place. Recently though, Mickey and Ian's favorite hangouts are the abandoned buildings. 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each shot rattles the air with an echo. If the store is there castle, these building are their sanctuary. A failed housing project which never came to fruition. The ‘Private Property: No Trespassing' sign becomes their own personal welcome mat. Away from the prying eyes, they can be as free as they wished. 

“Left knee.” 

Bang! 

“Right shoulder.”

Bang! 

“Chest.”

Bang! 

“Kill shot.” 

Bang!

There's loud booming laughter before another shot is called out, “Nutcracker!” 

Bang! 

“Hah! You fucking missed! The fuck was that, army! Why’d you shoot the bastard in the leg? That army brain ain't giving up in that trajectory shit now, ayt? I said shoot'em in the fucking nuts!”  Mickey jumps from the roof to where Ian's standing—behind the cement-weighted barrels that marks the 25-mark line. 

Ian whips around with a glare. “That was a perfect shot! You said nutcracker not the guy's actual nuts! The hell you use to crack someone's balls, huh? Your shin! Why the hell do you want me to shoot him there anyway? Really, who does that? It's insane!” 

It's Sunday. They've been going at it since breakfast and it's passed lunch now. Their shirts cling on their sweaty back. Ian just got the requirements for his Westpoint application—one of them being that he pass a preliminary gun certification test. A quick text to Mickey and they find themselves here. At first, they have a friendly game to determine who's the better shot (Ian), then Mickey got tired and called out shots instead. 

“Nutcracker’s the nuts, man! You crack the nut. The fuck you don' know that?” Mickey argues back. He goes up to the sweat-drenched alpha, poking Ian in the chest. “If I wanted you to shoot'em in the leg, I would have said that!” 

“How am I supposed to know that? Want me to read your mind now? Mick, I can barely read you face most of the time. Feels like I’m blind!” Ian grouses with a frown. 

Mickey's still staring at him with sharp eyes, scent flaring wildly. “That’s why you supposed to listen to me, asshole! S'possed to shoot'em assholes that look like they wanna eat ya—right in the nuts. Maximum damage. They outta learn not ta think of lookin' at m'alpha.” 

“That so, Mick? You’re going to shoot them in the balls? Alright. Alright. I actually think I kinda link that.” Ian lowers his hands in surrender. “I'm sorry,” he says earnestly. The gun safety clicks then the black met is tucked into the waistband of his jean. Ian loops his arms around Mickey loosely, bringing their faces together. “You’re right. I should have listened better.”

“Sadistic fucker,” Mickey snorts, wiggling in Ian's arms. “Oiy, enough with the faggy shit. I got it, ayt! Me getting’ all ghetto make ya hot and shit. Tch. What doesn’t get that crotch hot, eyy?” Despite their closeness in the bedroom, he's still uncomfortable with intimacy outside of sex. It's a slow progression but his alpha's ever patient. “C'mon. Don' you use enough bullet for today? Gotta eat something, man. Or you gonna be lanky-assed again.”

Ian laughs, fingers touching the base of the dark black tresses. “You liked me when I was lanky-assed, remember?” 

“The fuck says who?” 

“Mick…”

“Ayt, fine.” Mickey flips Ian a doublebird. “Oiy, ain't you got a stomach or some shit? I'm fucking starving, man. Gotta eat too ya know. We missed lunch. S'fucking three an' we didn't pack shit,” he gripes, showing Ian his phone. On the lockscreen, there's a photo of their guns on the concrete. It's as close to being the two of them without risking getting caught. Ian's is one of his family. 

Ian bends down to nuzzle Mickey's jaw. “Come back to mine,” he says, nipping the tender skin there. “It’s coupon day. Pantry’s gonna be full. Fiona and Debs said they’re making Pot Roast tonight. It’s sweet. You’ll like it. They always make too much after coupon day. I'll text Mandy to meet us a block away, and we can pretend she dragged you along. C'mon, Mick, s'not like you have better dinner options at home. Aren't you tired of pizza bagels and Jell-O?” 

“Oiy, don't mess with my fucking Jell-O, man. I'll bite your fucking tongue'off!” Mickey pushes Ian's head so he can look the alpha in the eyes, glaring. Ian's using his secret weapon—puppy dog eyes of pure fagginess. Mickey's shit against it, a fact that Ian knows strategically when to use. “Ayt, fuckin' fine! But only if Mandy's comin' with. I ain't gonna be stuck alone in that den of chaos without somethin' to offer as sacrifice. She can do all the sucking up if shit ain't good.” 

“It's going to be good. I promise!” Ian's practically buzzing when he pulls out his phone to send the messages. Unlike Mickey's nervous tick, he bites his lips when he's too excited over something. Fingers fly over the touchscreen. A little part of Mickey—correction; a lot—thinks it's adorable, and Milkoviches do adorable. He's so fucking dead.

Ding!

Mickey tiptoes to peer over Ian's forearm. “What did the skank sister say?” 

“Mandy's already there.”

“You fucking joking?!” 

“Nope.” Ian shakes his head and shows Mickey the snapchat that Mandy just send him—it shows Mandy and Debbie making some kind of brownish red dish, noticeably with make-up, and Fiona smiling in the background. “Deb wanted a makeover day. I have no idea what they're making though.” 

Mickey grabs Ian's wrist and bring the phone closer to him. “It’s Goulash,” he says, seconds later, with a blank expression on his face. Ian quietly waits for an explanation. “It’s uh… my—our—mom used ta make it for us when we had groceries and shit. Wasn't always this bad, ya know? She was, err, a waitress and she brings the day-expired shit. Wasn't bad-bad shit. Jus'a day aft'r what the label says—uhh, whatever. She used to make it. Don't know why the bitch thinks makin' it now s'good.” 

“Maybe Mandy misses her.” 

“Dunno, man. Fuck if I care.” 

They gather their stuff silently after that. Backpacks hold their gear and ammo. The shells would be re-packed with gun powder in the Milkoviches' basement and the guns need a good cleaning after today's practice—especially Ian's. Once outside, they slide back into the façade of friends. Shoulders casually bump as they shove at each other.

Mickey doesn't say much of anything the whole way back, and Ian offers his unspoken support. They choose to walk instead of risk bringing their gear in the El. It's not overly long but the trek to Ian's house takes another hour. Food smells comes from nearly every house on the street, not surprising given the time. 

The Gallagher house sits in the middle of a long street. It's poorly shingled roof and patches-up wooden exterior makes it a sight to behold even in this neighborhood, carrying the evidence of raising three kids and three more in the works. 

Lip sits out on the porch, cigarette in and a bottle of beer by his feet. “What’s he doing here?” He sneers, glaring at Mickey. 

“Lip, don't,” Ian warns the omega, “He's Mandy's brother. Of course she'll want h to taste her cooking.” 

“Cooking?” Lip snorts. “It’s more like a Hurricane Mandy rampaged through the kitchen. Then guess who'll be stuck cleaning the slop, right? Tch. The thing she make almost edible?”

Mickey pushes past Ian and kicks Lip leg with the tip of his boot.  “Oiy, that's my fucking sister ya talkin' trash about, Gallagher. She's gonna break your fucking omega balls if she wants to. ‘Course shit she makes fucking edible. The fuck you think she is? We don't gots no mama bear like yous, ayt?” 

“What the fuck, Mickey!” Thankfully, the kick isn't too hard. Lip rubs at his sore shin. “You better fuckin wish that an alpha likes you enough to train you in. Fucking ass with no matters. Why are you two doing together anyway? You hanging out without Mandy now too? You fucking or something?” 

Mickey's whole body freezes. “The fuck's it too you, fuckface.” He shoves Lip on the way inside, cheeks burning red. It's good that Gallaghers don't have too much fancy lighting. “Ay, yo Mands! The fuck you makin'? I'm fucking hungry.” 

Carl's on the sofa playing a shooting game and Liam's in his playpen. Mandy comes out from the kitchen with a frilly pink apron that almost makes Mickey laugh. 

“The fuck is that?” Mickey's lips twitch. “You two playin' house now? Makin' food and shit.” 

“Mickey,” Fiona's voice chastises from the kitchen. “Watch what you say around the children!” For a beta, she's the only one aside from his sister that Mickey even remotely respects. Everyone who knows the Gallaghers know that she's the glue that keeps them together. Mickey can respect that. 

He plops himself on the sofa beside Carl, and steals the controller. “Lemme show you how it's done kid.” 

“Hey, Carl,” Ian greet, vaulting over the back of the sofa to plop beside Mickey. They think that Carl will present either as a beta or as an alpha since Debbie presented as an omega on her birthday. Ian, not knowing what to do, had called Mandy who knew exactly what to do. 

Carl doesn't even acknowledge the alpha, too engrossed in what's happening on the screen. The character is killing it. Mickey's hands fly over the buttons like second nature. He half-grunts when Ian presses their legs together. 

“Ian! Carl! Lip!” Debbie inbounds into the living room with a shout. “Dinner’s ready!” She swoops into give Ian her customary bear hug when she stops short, nose twitching and staring an Mickey with wide eyes. It's her first time to see him after she presented. “You're—” she sniffs loudly, “a—a… Uh, like me.” 

“Omega,” Mickey mutters under his breath. “Fuck’s it to you, mini-red?” 

Debbie loudly sniffs the air again. “You’re mated to Ian?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola mi putas~ Guess what bitches~ I'm in fucking **ECUADOR**!!! How crazy is that??? I never would have imagined myself here in Latin America, and yet here I am. So, sorry for the long wait. I've been trying to find a place to stay while I start my new work here. Hoping to get more inspired as I see this beautiful country. 
> 
> Leave comments and kudos if you like it~ Ciao!

A simple—no doubt thoughtless—question from the young omega, and yet seven eyes all turn to Mickey.

Even Fiona's alpha boyfriend what's-his-name, stops half-way through the front door with Lip right on his heels. All the air is sucked right out Mickey. The question hangs heavily in the eerily quiet air. It’s out there, in the open, making Mickey squirm in his own skin. His heart hammers in his chest.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

It’ll come out if he doesn’t stop it.

Sweat pours out from every pore—hands, feet, armpits, everything. Mickey hates that fact that he can _smell_ the chance in his scent. He hates the smell of fear. He especially hates the smell of _his own_ fear, and it’s all because the stupid little red head couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

All the while, Debbie—helplessly oblivious—keeps looking at the older omega, waiting for an answer. Her big green eyes stare gaze up at Mickey like he had the answers to all wondrous answers for the questions of the world. She looks so pitifully young at ten years old. It’s eons away from how Mickey started dealing coke in his living room when he was the same age.

An eternity passes before somebody speaks.

“Debs…” Ian says her name carefully, eyes shifting from corner to corner, assessing everyone's faces. He sees Debbie’s curiosity, Liam’s blank stare, Carl’s mischievous smirk, Mandy’s teeth threatening to bite part of her lip off, Fiona’s jaw hanging off its hinge, Jimmy-Steve’s impression of a deer caught in headlights, and Lip’s eyes wide like fancy twelve-inch dinner plates. But, most of all, he sees the frightened expression Mickey’s face.

“Mickey and I aren't mated. You must have gotten it wrong.”

Debbie either doesn't care or has a death wish via Mickey's fist. “Then why so you guys smell the same?” She says like they’re talking about the weather. “Ian smells like Mickey and Mickey smells like Ian. I can smell it now! Ian's scent is like ours but isn't like ours. I thought he smells like Mandy but he smells like you.” She points a finger to Mickey.

The dark-haired omega growls. “You wanna fucking die? Why don't ya shut ya fucking cakehole, huh?” Because, that’s the only thing he can say in a situation like this. There’s always a fight because it’s always a fight. He didn’t survive to this point without one fist half-way in the air. Threats always make people shut up. It’s basic instinct. “It’s none of yer fuckin’ business.”

“Mick,” Ian whispers softly beside him, hand reaching for the older boy's elbow, flinching at the last moment when a tattooed hand slaps it away.

“Fucking touch me and you die, Gallagher!” Mickey barks, snarling with his teeth bared. There’s a growl at the back of his throat that would scare _anyone_ off. “S'not my fuckin' fault your sister can't keep'er trap shut! Why s'gotta be me all the time! Damnit!” He turns back to the young omega. “You,” he practically spits out, making Debbie cowers in fear. “You ain't sayin' nothing, ayt? That shit nose of yer is gonna get ya killed if you can’t keep yer trap shut. So can it, little red.”

It’s Mandy to the rescue. “Mickey!” She shouts, sprinting all the way from the kitchen to leap on her brother’s back. Her hands immediately go for a two-armed grip, under his pits and over his chest. She has his hands raised over his head. “Stop making a scene, doucheface! It's like your fucking admitting it! S'just a little kid. S'not her fault that her nose isn't used to you yet. Ian's right. Debbie got it wrong.”

“I'm not wrong!” Debbie raises her voice, fuming. “I smell it! I’ve got a nose! It’s a good nose! I can smell anything! I know you’re fucking lying! You and Ian smell the same! I’m not a little kid! You can tell me I’m right that you’re mated.”

Her outburst only makes things worse. Mickey’s hands are clenched tight at his sides. Sweat pools along every crease. It’s nearly dripping.

Exits. Exits. He needs exits.

It’s always best to have an exit strategy. He’s been in the Gallagher house so many times that he doesn’t even averts his eyes. There’s a layout of the building in his head—the fastest way to get out of here. Then, he maps out town—the streets, the hidden corners, the darkest spots. He needs an escape. He needs to get away—far, far, away from the Gallagher and _Ian_ —because, no, it’s out. Their secret isn’t a secret, and he refuses to be the one to condemn the Southside’s only silver-lining.

“Debbie!” Fiona swoops, grabbing her sister by the arm. “Stop it. Asking about mating isn't polite conversation. Come on back to the kitchen, please, come on. We got more company coming. Help me set up the extender and the extra chairs.”

“But Fiona…!” Debbie tries to complain, but one look is all it takes for her to silently follow her older sister.

The tension in the room remains thick enough to cut through even with the pair gone. Mandy's half on the back of the couch and half on Mickey, arms wrapped around his neck. She tries, desperately, to calm him but her weak beta-scent cannot mask the scent of distressed omega in the air. It’s Mickey, and thanks to Debbie’s big mouth, everyone in the house knows it.

Nobody moves. Lip and Jimmy are frozen at the door. Ian hasn't moved from when he flinched back from Mickey. Carl's frowning at the red screen which blinks the message ‘You are dead' in white. Then, Liam starts to cry, breaking the silence. Of course, it’s Ian who moves quickly to the toddler's side.

“Hey, buddy, come here,” the alpha coos quietly, picking Liam up into his arms. He rocks the toddler in a familiar and well-practiced motion. Liam instantly shushes and buries his face against Ian’s shoulder. “S’all right, buddy. You hungry? Need to change your nappy? Or you wanna go outside for some fresh air? I need some air is good for you.”

It’s unfair how utterly _right_ Ian looks with a toddler in his arms.

Two polar-opposite sides tear Mickey from the inside-out. On one side, his inner omega purrs at the sight of _his_ alpha-mate displaying his skills as a father. On the other, the rational part of his brain—the one who has kept him alive and kicking this long—tells him that an omega could never birth a child in a place like the Southside.

That’s all it takes for the needle drops onto the floor.  

“Fuck this!” He all but shouts in frustration, kicking his feet off the table. He throws the controller onto Carl's lap. The boy yelps in surprise. Mickey barrels out of the house with a single-minded determination. He ignores the voices calling after him—whether it be his sister or any of the Gallaghers. He doesn't care. His feet carry him away. For as long it's far away from the Gallagher house, then it’s okay.

Footsteps follow him. It’s Ian.

Mickey knows the alpha is the only one stupid enough to follow him.

Fuck it.

He breaks into a run.

Buildings change.

Street steadily become more deserted.

A desolate playground comes up to his right, and he sprints for it. There’s rickety-looking swing sets and a rusty metal slide, a round robin with a broken arm, an empty sand box with a burnt rolling paper, and dilapidated spring animals. It’s like the set of a horror movie, and it’s perfect. He hides under the slide, reminding him of when he was little enough to hide under the porch when Terry went into a rampage.

“Mickey!” Ian's voice slices through the silence. The alpha's scent smells so thick—like rut.

For the first time, Mickey realizes that it might not have been a great idea to run from an alpha, especially one so close to rut. The chase—he’s heard about it like old wives’ tales in the campfire. His brother jokes about it one some of their other alpha clients. The chase has been known since the dawn of the first alpha and omega—when alphas had to prove their strength to rightfully claim and breed an omega. The chase, and all its bullshit, if the stuff of crappy commercialized fairytales.

Mickey knows all this, and yet his inner omega cries out because _Ian chased him_. They’ve done it before. He remembers the time when he punched kicked another alpha’s whimpy rich white ass, and had to flee from the Northside. It’s different. They were _both_ running away from the cops back then. Now though, Ian’s run only because of him.

His heart beats loudly and wildly like it wants to escape. The drumming rings in his ears.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

All his senses are on high-alert—on overdrive.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

How could he have been so fucking careless? He can smell his own slick pooling at the inseam of his pants. It trickles along his backside, down his crack, and undoubtedly start to form a puddle. The air mixes with Ian’s pungent scent. Mickey smells the alpha before he hears the footsteps coming closer. Slowly but surely, the steps come closer to his hiding spot.

Mickey shifts on the warm ground, pants growing damp as the scent becomes more prominent—closer. Ian smells like young potent virile alpha—a day's worth of sweat but he still smells like sunshine. The omega inside Mickey wants nothing more than to bury itself in Ian’s neck, where the scent should be the strongest.

Any moment now, he’s going to be found and mated.

 _Mated_ —the thought makes slick pour out even more.  

“Mickey.” Ian’s voice cracks, sounding like he gargled the rocks by Mickey's feet. “C’mon, let's go back to dinner.”

Mickey's head whips up so fast that it hurts. He expected to be dragged out and forced against his will. He expected to kick and scream and put up a fight. He expected Ian to _win_ and finally claim him, and he doesn’t know if he would even resist the alpha’s dominance. The alpha’s eyes are blood-red, almost no trace of the evergreens that remind Mickey of the middle of summer when the grass grows the tallest. He smells like the best memory of summer in Mickey’s life.

“What?! You ain't… you ain't gonna…?” He sputters like a fool. Like some weak-willed idiot, he couldn’t stop the way he curls further into himself—trying to be as little as possible.

“Mate you?” Ian spits out, face full of disgust, making Mickey's stomach sink. “I’m an alpha, Mick, not a barbarian. Not gonna fucking mate you, alright?” He’s got one hand holding onto the slide so tight that angry red lines begin to form along his palm. Even as Ian says it, Mickey sees the way it the alpha’s mouth is salivating. “I'm not some stupid knothead! Now, please, I'm fucking hungry and that shit back home smelled amazing.”

It hurts more than he’s willing to admit. Red-eyed with lust, it’s obvious that Ian’s inner alpha isn’t in control. Anyone with half a brain—an inch away from full-rut—wouldn’t have been able to turn away an omega who was leaking slick like it a whore. It hurts all the more because the gesture speaks of Ian’s true intentions. Who was Mickey to start believing in delusions? No matter how tender the alpha can be, they’ve been _fucking_ — _just fucking_.

Ian doesn’t want him, let alone be mated to him. Mated—who would want to be mated to him of all people? Ian chased him, his inner omega repeats, but the alpha doesn't want him--won't bite him, won't claim him because he isn't worth it. Ian’s primal instincts are refusing him.

He’s an omega who doesn't look or act like an omega. Seventeen years old and still a fucking freshman. His life isn't going anywhere. There are so many more better candidates out there. It's a no-brainer that Ian wouldn't want to mate with him. He drives people away with his heat scent. No one wants that. No one would want his heat. No one would ever want him. He’s only ever been a fuck. That’s all he’s worth.

 “No.” Mickey shakes his head. It’s shaky as hell and makes him look so fucking weak but he can’t control it. “Fuck!” Damp hands tremble while they run through his hair. “I can't go back there, man,” he says, shoulders starting to quiver. “I—I—they know, Ian! If your fucking sister didn't—fuck—shudda kept my fucking mouth shut. I practic'lly ratted it out! Outta just said in the first place. Fuck. Christ! No—I'm not going back there!”

Ian slides down to his knees, frowning. Mickey can't smell anything. He's in the dark. Somehow, Ian's keeping his scent under control because all Mickey can smell is sunshine and summer.

“Look, I—I get that it—us—is not something we advertise… but it's just my family, Mick. They're not gonna care who I fuck—unless he's old and married. You're Lip's age definitely and not married, last I checked. I’m an alpha. You’re an omega. There’s nothing wrong. Is it really so bad if they find out that we're fucking?”

“We’re both fucking guys, Gallagher. I ain't no fucking fag.”

Ian snorts loudly, nonchalantly. His eyes starting to clear as his breathing evens out. “I’m pretty sure that liking it up the ass makes you pretty gay, Mick.”

“The fuck you say?!” Mickey sneers, lips curling. Damn Ian fucking Gallagher and his stupid magical abilities. Already, Mickey feels the storm dissipate from his chest. He can't imagine that he looks threatening in the slightest but it doesn't stop him from trying. A lightly curled fist hits Ian on the shoulder. “You want me to shove this up your fucking ass?! See how you like it.”

Ian gives him a half-smile. “We’ll need more than your natural lube but I’m sure I'll definitely like it. I'm pretty sure that I'm gay. Didn't feel bad when you're fucking me. Loved it actually. S'hot that you use your own sli—”

“Fucking keep your trap shut!” Mickey covers Ian's mouth with his hands. “You talk too fucking loud!”

That makes Ian laugh. Gently, he pulls Mickey's hand away. Big warm hands cover Mickey’s clammy ones. “Stop being so paranoid, Mick. There's no on here but us. We're fine.” Then, he stops. “We are fine, right? We good? Look, if you really don't like it… we'll go with what Mandy said. She wasn't too wrong. You guys smells similar but not entirely the same. Her is more fruity and you're woodsy. I didn't know that Debbie would have such a good nose. Even Lip sometimes gets confused.”

“The fuck?” Mickey snorts, grossed out. “That shit's disgusting, man. Fucking Lip?”

“Sometimes when I come from your house. He asks about Mandy. I don't tell him she isn't always there. Fiona can barely tell either but that's not a surprise. I doubt she even knows how you smell like. It's mostly Mandy hanging around the house.” Ian brushes his fingers over the back of Mickey's hand. “Come on. Our sisters slaved over dinner. Eat with us. There's nothing for you back at your house except stale takeaway and beer.”

“Yeah.” Mickey gives in with a sigh. “Yeah, okay. But I ain't eating no brown rice shit. I take my rice white, ayt? As white as your freckled white ass.”

Ian grin splits his whole face. That dopey-faced grin is enough for Mickey's inner omega preen. It's completely unfair how he's so attuned to Ian that the smallest gestures makes his heart flutter like a stupid omega romance hero. He can't find it in himself to get mad at Ian, and so it's only himself. 

They walk back the way they came.

Mickey keeps mostly to himself even if Ian keeps casually bumping their shoulders together. The small touch feels so much like an anchor. He knows that he's been a fucking train wreck today. Ian's never been this bad. The alpha may have his heart on his sleeve but Mickey isn't like that. At least, he _isn't_   supposed to be. This only means one thing—something he dreads—his heat must be coming. He can't let Ian smell him in heat. It might be a little selfish but he wants to keep Ian around for as long as he can. By now, he can admit—mostly to himself and only in the confines of his head—that he likes the alpha, probably more than he should.

Ian stops them two corners away, abruptly. Mickey nearly toppled over as he pulled the omega to the side. “Mick, man, come on, what's up? You haven't said a word! Do you really hate the idea of my family knowing that were fucking?” He sounds so fucking upset that Mickey cannot stop what comes out of his mouth next. 

“Nah, man.” He says, wanting nothing more than to wipe away the frown on Ian’s face. While technically not a lie, it's not the whole truth either. Mickey's uncomfortable with them knowing and running their mouths about it. Terry would kill him then find and excuse to kill Ian for making his son into a fag. The though makes Mickey's gut drop. He can stomach Terry taking _his_ like but not Ian’s—never Ian’s. Ian’s gonna go places, and he won't let anyone—even himself—stop the alpha. 

“Mick…” There's that sad look in Ian's eyes that Mickey hates seeing. So, he forces all the thoughts about Terry to the back of his mind. He doesn't really know what to say, so he fakes it. “Guess that you, uh, got a thing for married men, huh, Gallagher? Need'ta get myself hitched, huh? Gonna make me hotter for ya? Is it the ring or the fact that it ain't yours that gets you goin'?”

It was meant to be funny but it has the opposite effect. Ian pushes them into the nearest blind spot and kisses Mickey—tongue, teeth, and lips like he wants to devour the omega then and there, rut or no rut—until they are both flushed and breathless and Mickey swears he can _smells_ his heat begin early. Thankfully, he only imagines the last part because Ian nuzzles his red five-o’clock shadow to Mickey’s skin. It's impossible to have an alpha so near if he  _is_ in heat. 

“No, you're not going to marry the first two-bit whore that comes your way. S'not gonna happen. I'm not gonna let it. You hear me, Mick?” He says darkly, licking wetly at Mickey's neck, near the mating gland which makes the omega whimper. It's possessive and primal, and sounds so much like an alpha speaking directly to Mickey's inner omega. “That’s cause you're fucking mine. No one’s gonna take you away from me.”

For now, Mickey believes him and lets himself be kissed. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a month (my gosh!) since I've updated. I'm happy to report that this actually is a newly written chapter. I have 16 chapters written down. This isn't the original chapter 14. The original didn't feel right so I've been postponing the posting. I'm glad I did. I think this chapter's even better _and_ give me more space to play with for the plot. 
> 
> Thank you to the faithful readers still interested in this story. It's been a long year since I've started this and I'm still not finished. Hope you stay with me until the end. 
> 
> **WARNINGS:** Not beta-read. Looking for volunteers!

After the whole thing with Debbie, Mickey steers clear from the Gallagher house for a while. No, he’s not hiding. He isn’t a pussy. It’s just easier being in Trumbull. There’s less people, less eyes, and less changes of ever getting caught. He likes it the peace and quiet better. It’s settling.

Late afternoon to early mornings are the safest. That’s when Terry’s usually in Alibi either downing beers like there’s no tomorrow or throwing back a couple of shots before knocking some unwitting asshole’s teeth loose. Iggy’s fuck-knows-where. It’s normally just him and Mandy at the house—and now, Ian.

The alpha’s made himself perfectly at home, his gigantic frame squished between the two Milkovich siblings while they try to beat each other at _Need4Speed_. It a tight fit but all three of them make it work. Ian’s got one arm thrown over the back of the couch, over Mandy’s shoulders, while the other hand rests idly on Mickey’s thigh. The older boy doesn’t say anything about it.

Mandy skills have upped a level or two from all the time Mickey spent in juvie. It shows too. She maneuvers her car in front of his and take first place.

“Oiy, oiy, you fuckin’ cunt! You can’t just—fuck!” Mickey’s brows scrunch in frustration. Socked feet kick the rickety old coffee table. Their glasses of rootbeer jangle on the wooden surface as a warning.

Ian catches his glass between his feet but his angle catches Mandy’s glass. It spills. “Fuck! Fuck! Shit!” He scrambles to get his feet and ends up hitting the table with his shin. More rootbeer spills onto the wood.

“Ian!” Mandy shouts in irritation, jumping out of her seat. Her controller falls on the sofa cushion. “That shits gonna be a bitch to clean!” On the screen, her car crashes pitifully over a cliff then her side of the screen goes red.

Mickey, seemingly undisturbed, finishes his race like nothing ever happened. “Boom! That’s how you win, bitch.” He cocks an eyebrow at his sister. Rootbeer has seeped into his cotton socks by now and slowly climbing to the folded hem of his jeans. “Can’take them eyes of the prize,” he gloats, eyeing Ian with intent. “Clean this shit up. Gotta take a leak then change.”

“Woo-hooot.” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Looks like someone finally learned the value of hygiene.” She reaches for her controller first then stashes safely on top of the tv. “Come on, Ian, make your clumsy ginger-ass useful and help me clean this mess up.”

Mickey has other ideas. “Nope, he’s cleaning _me_ up. Suck it up, skank,” he says, casually over his shoulder, without bothering to look back.

“Sorry, Mands. I’ll make it up to you.” Ian pressed his palms together in apology.

Mandy throws him the double-bird. “Fuck you and my fucking asshole brother.” Because, really, that’s about all she can do.

In the safety of his own room, behind his door with the hinges fastened, Mickey pounces as soon as the lock clicks. It’s mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue, like they haven’t seen each other in ages. Maybe, they haven’t. They’ve been in each other’s presence a shit-load of times but not like this—not alone. People have seemed to develop an uncanny ability for finding them.

“Fuck,” Ian breathes when they part for air. A light blush paints his cheeks, making his dark red freckles stand out. His clean-cut has grown a few inches. Bangs fall slightly over his eyes. He’s leaning against the door with Mickey’s full weight pressing him securely on the wood, back and head slightly bent to accommodate Mickey’s short stature.

Mickey’s grinning like he won the lottery. “Damn fucking right, _fuck_. Missed ya,” he intones, carding his tattooed fingers through Ian’s hair, “I’ve missed ya, fucker.” One hand swoops down, grabbing Ian’s half-chub at the base. “Missed the heat your packing too.” Mickey noses at right at Ian’s non-swollen mating glad. It’s warm against his skin. “You gonna fuckin’ knot me, alpha?”

Ian growls low at the back of his throat. His irises momentarily change from green to red. It’s the type of red that makes Mickey’s blood hot with lust. “Anyway you want, Mick. I’m yours.”

And, _fuck_ , if that isn’t music to Mickey’s ears. His inner omega rumbles contently inside him. Ian hasn’t used the phrase often. Mickey’s heard it once or twice; the first time being after he beat the old viagroid alpha near the shanty bar called _The Fountain_. It should be called a _Wateringhole_ for geezers and creeps with weird fetishes. But, that’s then and this is now.

He’s got Ian now—with or without a permanent claim. That’s enough.

“Says it again,” he demands, pushing his face under Ian’s jaw and scenting at the alpha’s glands. It smells like summer’s never left even if it was the middle of September. The scent sends a thrill through him. He’s never scented _anyone_ half as good as Ian smells to him. Ian’s smells like sunshine—crisp, fresh, and warm. It makes him feel warm down to his belly.

“I’m yours, Mick,” Ian repeats, but then adds, “only yours.”

That’s above and beyond what Mickey’s ready to hear. On one hand, his inner omega buzzes with enthusiastic joy; but, he’s also struck with iron-cold fear. He’s never been one who’s good with intimacy. Sex, he gets. Sex, he understands. It’s the feelings that makes everything more complicated than it should. And, he _knows_ that’s he’s passed the point of no return once he admits that what he feels for the red-haired alpha now goes beyond primal urges.

Mickey bites his lip for a moment then shakes his head. “Ayy. Ayy,” he says, slipping back into his thick-accented drawl to diffuse the tension in the air, hoping too that distress doesn’t bleed into his scent. His next works are carefully chosen despite how loosely they come out. “Stop yer yappin’ and getta movin’, Firecrotch. That know ain’t gonna pop itself.”

Ian knocks his head back against the door once, maybe twice—intentionally—before shaking his head. “Damnit!” He curses, clearly frustrated. His hands curl into tight fists at his sides a few times. He collapses against the door with a sigh, the weight of Mickey’s body helping him keep upright.

“I _can’t_ ,” he says with a pained tone to match his anguished expression, “believe me, I want to. It’s been so fucking long. You don’t know how many nights I dream of reaming your perfect ass, Mick. _But_ ,” he adds with finally, “I promised Fiona I’d watch over Liam this afternoon and I’ve got—” he pulls out his phone and checks the time. Mickeys spies a familiar picture as the wallpaper; concrete and a pair of non-descript guns. “—less than an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, tops. _Including,_ travel time. My knot’s not going to go down fast. It’s been too long since I’ve cum in your ass.”

An honest-to-god whine threatens to escape Mickey’s lips. He shushes it just in time. Snappishness replaces his disappointment. There’s an equally half-hard chub inside his pants and slick making its way between his ass-cheeks. He’ll need a shower and scent blockers to hide his aroused scent.

He growls low. With lighting-fast speed that only a horny Mickey Milkovich can possess, he shoves Ian’s hand down the back of his pants and traps one of Ian’s long fingers between his damp crease. “Alpha the fuck up and take some fucking responsibility, Gallagher. That hole’s not going to entertain itself.”

Ian laughs, heartily, with his happy scent bubbling up and flooding the room. He leans down, kissing Mickey’s forehead then whispers huskily, “How about you ride my face, Mick?”

Yes, absolutely yes, Mickey cannot get with _that_ program fast enough. He hauls Ian’s large alpha frame onto his rickety bed. The manhandling brings back so many memories of their first time together in this exact bed.

Ian’s on top of the covers, head a mere inch from the headboard. Alpha pheromones fill the air. The aroused alpha scent drives Mickey insane. He can’t discard his soiled socks and soiled jeans fast enough. Ian needs to help him, with strong hands on the back of his thighs, guiding his knees on either side of Ian’s head and his leaking asshole inches above Ian’s face.

Mickeys toes curl and uncurl—cold and sticky from the rootbeer.

“That’s it,” Ian praises, hands stroking up and down Mickey’s backside, “now, lower your hips and let me taste you, Mick.”

Mickey shakes when he lowers himself. The busted old headboard makes for a weak brace. It moves far too much and creaks like it’s about to break. Mickey concentrates so hard on keeping his balance that he’s complexly unprepared for the first swipe of Ian’s tongue over his hole. His knees buckle underneath him then he falls—ass smothering Ian with slick and flesh. His entire body reddens in embarrassment.

However, before he could pull himself back up, two strong hands grip his waist hard enough to leave bruises and hold him down.

Ian says something, muffled and inaudible, then pure pleasure runs up Mickey’s spine. Ian’s tongue is soft and wet but that’s not the only thing he feels. There’s also Ian’s lips, slightly softer and a little chapped, Ian’s teeth, solid and hard nips to his sensitive flesh, and Ian’s light five o’clock shadow, slightly itchy but makes the experience so different from the times before.

Mickey loses all feeling in his legs. It’s a buzz down his right thigh like Ian’s stroking that single solitary nerve rigged to give Mickey pleasure. He’s sticky in other places now—where skin presses against skin, where the heat of their bodies have opened-up their sweat glands. The whole world narrows down to this tiny single bed where Ian’s feet dangle off the edge.

“Ian,” he pants, open mouthed, tasting Ian in the air. It makes him lose his mind. “Ian, Ian, fuck.”

Two years they’ve been fucking, and in that time Ian’s developed a knack for guessing what Mickey wants in bed. One of his hands climb up Mickey’s thigh, past the groin, lightly scratches over the stomach, then pinches Mickey’s nipple hard.

Mickey jerks, hips pushing harder onto Ian’s face. A finger rubs the sore flesh apologetically. It’s too late though. Mickey’s all too aware of the pain contrasting the pleasure his ass and his nipple are the only things he can center on. He can’t even lift himself up.

Ian carries on. He licks wetly over and across the smeared slick then dives back to the source for more. It drives Mickey insane with the way his lips close around the pucker in order to suck more slick out.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Mickey’s faculties have long ceased functioning. It’s just him and Ian. It’s the touch of their flesh, the scent of the arousals, and the taste of them lingering in the air. Every time his takes a breath, it smells like a breezy summer. His ears pound with the drumming of his heartbeat.

“Ian, I gotta cum,” He asks, more like _begs_ , the alpha.

Ian’s hands move. Two large palms cup his round bottom before pulling his cheeks apart. Slick gushes out of him like a freshly opened tap. It’s like a stream or a waterfall but it feels like he’s wetting the bed, or Ian’s face, and getting everything between his legs soaked.

Then, just then, Ian decides it’s a good time to plunge his tongue inside.

Mickey loses his shit and shoots cum in thick white stripes all-over his headboard. That’s when he collapses in a boneless heap onto his back on top of Ian with his legs folded awkwardly underneath him. Ian maneuvers them both into a more comfortable position—taking the role of the big spoon for their post-coital cuddle.

That’s another new thing added to their list of strange things.

They cuddle now after sex for a good five to ten minutes until something forces them apart. It’s not like it happens often. The times they’re free to enjoy post-sex snuggles are few and far apart. They only do it when Terry and Iggy are busy with drug-runs. Even a single minute naked and vulnerable is a great risk. They cannot indulge in this small delight too often.

Mickey takes a moment to appreciate how debauched the alpha looks with his face flushed and glistening with slick. “You need a shower.”

On cue, Ian’s phone vibrates with a ding.

“That’s Fiona,” he says mournfully.

Mickey’s too fucking out of it to care. He mumbles something incoherent and gives Ian enough room to wiggle out. Once the alpha’s out, Mickey seeks out the warmth and Ian’s lingering scent on his sheets. He finds a spot in the middle of his pillow, right at the edge where Ian’s neck must have been, and inhales the alpha’s scent there.

Ian goes into the bathroom but the sound of the shower doesn’t come. There’s a flush and the tap being open but nothing else. Their scents are still potent by the time Ian rejoins him in the bedroom. Ian draws near and Mickey scents _them_ on the alpha.

“Get under the covers, Mick,” Ian whispers softly, before planting another kiss on Mickey’s forehead. “You know we have to air out the room. I’ll open a window. You’ll get chilly.” As he talks, he pulls the blanket from underneath Mickey and cover the omega with it before leaving the room.

Again, Mickey’s traitorous inner omega loves the alpha’s sweet affections. He also shares, no matter how unwillingly, his inner omega’s happiness to have his alpha carry their mixed scents—no matter how stupidly idiotic that choice may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little light. Maybe sort of a filter or transition. Giving you guys fluff for the sake of pacing. Hope you enjoyed it!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes, this story **is not** abandoned. It's just delayed. _
> 
> Thank you once more for reading. It's more than a year since I started this story. I'm not nearly as close to canon-year as I would like to be. Sometimes, I get confused with their ages. If it's the same for you, please note that Mickey's around 19/20 now and Ian's 16. Two years have passed in the story-timeline. 
> 
> Also, anyone want to _BETA READ FOR ME_ /sound-board? I think I need at least one person whom I can discuss this story to whenever I hit roadblocks. It's getting harder to write.

A good game plan—that’s what Mikey needs. He’s getting far too close to the thing people call happiness. Happiness doesn’t suit Milkoviches. It didn’t work for his mum. It certainly didn’t work for his dad. He hopes it works for Mandy though. Iggy’s a fifty-fitty. But, him? There’s no chance in hell.

Ain’t no happy endings for male omegas in their part of Chicago.

Male omegas are rarer than female alphas. Betas make up a good chunk of the population—not half, not nearly half—but, case and point, there’s male alphas and female omegas. That’s how people see the world. By people, Mickey really just means Terry.

Terry, who just got out two weeks ago, sees the world in three colors: black, white, and grey. Note, it’s _just_ grey not shades of it. In his world, female alphas are the thing of pornos and male omegas just should not exist. Mickey’s done all he can to blend in. The illegal suppressants make it easy enough to hide his scent from Terry’s weak nose, and acts like an alpha.

Still, _a_ plan is better than _no_ plan, but ideas are coming up nil.

Mickey sometimes thinks that having heats could have been a blessing. At least then, only Mandy had an iron-gut to stomach his stench. The lilac pills carefully tucked in a dirty sock in his drawer takes all that out of the equation. That means he’s back on the regular roster for drug runs with Terry and Iggy.

Today, it’s just the three of them.

Iggy and he are stationed in the cafeteria of a large-chain supermarket. Terry fronts the pick-up in another big-name gas station some two blocks away. They’ve got burners in their pockets instead of their usual cellphones. It’s standard procedure—protocol—an out or an exit if ever one of them gets caught.

_Snap-flick-click_

S _nap-flick-click_

Mickey idly plays with the flip top of his disposable phone, wishing to see two guns on the concrete rather than the generic red swirls. Red reminds him of Ian though. It’s a little after quarter past four; Ian must be doing his JROTC-shit. He’s a cadet first leutienant now, and eyeing rank-up before entering senior high school next year. The thought makes Mickey smirk.

“Oiy, asshole,” Iggy grunts, kicking the outside of Mickey’s shin, making the younger Milkovich yelp in pain, “get your head your head in the game.”

“The fuck?” Mickey hisses, foot going for Iggy’s shin under the table. Iggy dodges without hesitation. Their glasses of soda rattle on the table, but thankfully stay upright. Clenching his jaw, Mickey glares daggers in his direction. “What the fuck was that for, fuckface?”

“I said,” Iggy repeats, voice dipping to some of his alpha-ness, enunciating every single word so that they don’t get lost in his Chicago slang, “get you head in the game.” He stares his brother down with a knowing look, serious but teasing. “Your top head, ‘kay? Not the one between your stumpy little legs. We can’t risk it. We never can. You know the life, Mick.”

_Mick_ , Iggy only calls him that when he’s serious.

Well, goddamn right, Mickey knows.  

He is, and always will be, destined for a criminal’s life.

It’s one of the reasons why he keeps the thing with Ian at bay. Ian’s been pushing for more. He tries to be discreet about it. Not discreet enough that Mickey doesn’t notice. Mickey’s grown up with the sleaziest filth of the Southside. Push comes to shove, he’s not going to drag Ian down with him. This life is his battle, not Ian’s.

“Yeah… yeah” he says looking down at his fuzzy dark drink, biting back the _I’m sorry_. Another thing about Milkoviches: they don’t apologize. He also doesn’t acknowledge how much his brother’s right.

“Good, ‘cause I ain’t telling you twice.”

Mickey grunted his acknowledgement-slash-annoyance then resumed his mindless phone-flipping.

“Goddamnit, Mickey!” Iggy snaps, hand snatching the device away. “I swear; if you don’t stop, I’ll break this motherfucker over your head. Fuck the plan. You can use a fucking pay phone if you need to call home—or your damn alpha. I’ve had enough of your omega mop-fest.”

_Shit_.

Mickey’s head snaps-up, torn between scandalized and scared. Iggy might have said with casualness, but Mickey’s eyes automatically scan for the nearest exits.

_Your alpha_ —it rings in his ears. _Fuck_.

There aren’t any exits free from civilians. He can fight his way out but he’s not sure how he can get from Laredo to Chicago without getting caught for causing a brawl. His juvie-instead-of-jail card expired last week. With his last name alone, it doesn’t matter if his records are sealed.

A rolled-up magazine hits Mickey on the back of his head. His whole body launches off his seat, ready to crawl over the table to land the first hit. Iggy blocks Micky’s fist with a hand. The other goes plants heavily on Mickey’s head, forcing the shorter brunette back down.

“Oiy, don’t cause us trouble! Sit the fuck down, fucker! You’re gonna get us caught and I’ve got a hot date when we get back home. _Sit down_!” The last one is said with a bit of Iggy’s alpha-voice. Because he’s unprepared, Mickey’s weak against it. He collapses onto the chair with a clatter, breathing hard and irregular.

“Oiy, calm down,” Iggy says, voice returning to normal. “Mickey—” he only calls his brother’s real name when he’s serious, “—alpha, beta, omega; I don’t give a flying fuck who you fuck, ayt? I gave you those damn pills for a reason. D’you think they’re really easy to get?”

The words dawn over Mickey, and the fight inside him subsides. He looks down at his knuckled clenched white then forces them to relax. Color returns under the fingerless gloves. They mainly cover-up his tats with the added benefit of making him look like a garbage-man on break rather than a drug-runner.

It’s too late though.

Once the panic recedes, Mickey hears the murmurs rising around them.

Iggy’s quick to move. “Let’s do,” he barks lowly, snatching up his half-filled cup of soda. “Not made but we gotta move.”

Mickey follows just as fast.

The two of them reach the open-air parking lot when Iggy stomps into a halt. His brows, like Mickey’s, speak volumes.

“What the fuck was that?” He burst out, the back of his fingers slapping loudly on Mickey’s left shoulder. “You nearly got us made! The _fuck_ you ‘causing a scene for, asshole? If I gave a fuck about you sleeping with an alpha then I would have said so. I’m not an idiot, Mickey. I know that alpha’s the reason why you stopped wearing my clothes.”

This time, Mickey’s ready.

“Yeah?” The omega inside him burns with anger. “Then what’s it to ya, fuckface, if ya don’t fuckin’ give a shit?” He’s ready for a fist-fight. Iggy’s taller, broader, stronger, and an alpha but Mickey has enough tricks to deal with alphas. Iggy shouldn’t be any different. To his surprise, instead of fists, Iggy’s open palms land on both shoulders.

“Mickey—” his name sounds so weird coming from Iggy’s mouth three times in the last hour. It’s got to be a record since the alpha passed puberty. Iggy isn’t sentimental. None of the Milkoviches are—they can’t gamble it.

“—you’re my fucking brother, ayt? I know it means little but it’s still something—we still both got the same blood. I know Terry’s is shit but half of it’s still mom’s. You and Mands might be too little to remember her but I do and she taught me lots of things too before she was gone. One of them is I know how to protect family.”

Well, fuck.

“When d’you get so smart?” Mickey stutters in surprise.

Iggy’s hands lift-up as his whole face eases into a laugh. “Fuck you. I was always smart. It’s just Terry and his fucked-up bullshit that fucks us all up. Sad fuck doesn’t know the real world—not anymore. But, family’s family even if it ain’t that great.” He stops then gives Mickey a long once-over. “Looks like you’re on your way to find yourself a new one soon. Fuckin’ sure that ain’t your shirt.”

Mickey runs a sweaty hand through his hair. True enough, he’s wearing one of Ian’s horizontally striped long-sleeved shirts under his baggy black jacket. It comes with Ian’s faded scent that no one else should detect.

“It’s not—I’m not…” he sighs heavily, head looking towards the late afternoon sky. Might as well have the conversation that he didn’t want to have. It’s useless to lie when Iggy’s got him all figured out. Besides, Milkoviches don’t do this type of shit—not often. Might as well get it out of his system. At least Iggy’s less likely to accidentally tell Ian compared to Mandy.

“I—it’s not—ain’t gonna happen, ayt? He ain't gonna want me. Not when—not when he smells how my scent s'like durin' heat. I'll be lucky if he does' dump my ass completely. Ya know how it is—s'fucking bad, man.” Iggy flinches at the memory, proving the Mickey's point. “The fuck am I doing? Shit's not gonna end good for no one. I’m not—betta not to get close.”

Iggy takes one long theatrical sniff then whistles. “Smells too late for that, lil’ bro. Ain’t mated but won’t be long. Alpha scent’s a part of ya, now. Terry or Mands won’t smell the difference but an alpha nose might. I know your scent. It’s changed.”

Mickey fights down his embarrassment. He absolutely will not _blush_ in front of Iggy. His ego’s been thoroughly humiliated enough in one day. Well, the best defense has always been a pro-active offense so, instead, he socks Iggy in the arm. It lands with a crack.

“You, fucker!” Iggy hisses, rubbing his arm. He’s grinning though. “If this wasn’t a run, I’d beat your white-ass. You better be ready when we’re back home.”

Mickey brushes his thumb over his lower lip, smirking with confidence. “Any time, dickface.”

Something in his words spur Iggy into action. The alpha pulls back the cuff of his winter jacket to reveal an honest-to-god wristwatch. Mickey thought things died-out years ago. He’s surprised that his brother still owns one.

“Terry’s late,” Iggys says, frowning.

While Terry’s never been the most punctual or reliable guy father, he operates on a semi-fixed schedule when on a run. They have something resembling a protocol—get in, get the merch, get out. Bring thirty minutes late isn’t part of that, especially without sending a word out.

A rock drops in Mickey’s gut.

Iggy opens both phones—his and Mickey’s—in each palm.

There’s nothing.

“He got made?” Mickey asks, dread and excitement colliding inside him. Part of him wants that to be true. Terry in the can is always better than out. Less risk. Less chances. Less likely to get caught. Another part of him fears that Terry might be late for another reason all together. His recent conversation with Iggy doesn’t deter the anxiety.

Iggy’s jaw tightens. “If he got made, we’re fucked. That’s gonna be you, me, and him in the Can. Ain’t looking forward to more quality time with the fucker. Got me?” He throws Mickey a knowing look.

Oh, _oh_.

If not the juvie records, pre-admission processing in jail will definitely out Mickey as an omega. Once Terry knows, there’s no predicting what he’ll do—whether he’ll kill Mickey first or use Mickey’s omega status to his advantage while inside. Mickey would rather die than think of the second one.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Fuck’s right,” Iggy agrees. “Come on,” he says, head tilting to the side. “Let’s go back to the van. We’ll text him from there. If the fucker doesn’t respond in ten minutes, we’ll get the fuck out of this hell.”

Terry does respond.

_30_ , his message says.

The brothers agree to hightail back if Terry’s even a minute late; consequences be damned. Iggy keys in the ignition and turns-up the heat. The minutes tick by, agonizing slow. Thirty minutes lasts forever in the cramped space where both their nervous scents build-up. It’s suffocating. Neither of them breaks the thick silence.

Finally, finally, Mickey sights Terry rounding the corner through the rearview mirror—but he isn’t alone. Two guys flank him on either side. They look similar—related, most likely—and, Mickey recognizes the younger one.

“Shit,” he says, catching Iggy’s eye.

Iggy acknowledges him with a small nod. “Know’em?”

“Left,” Mickey answers, looking over the dark-skinned beta whom he recognized. It crawls into his skin like tiny little beetles, prickly and uncomfortable. His hairs rise. He hasn’t seen the Hispanic boy in nearly two years—ancient history. History that’s coming to haunt him. “Juvie. We we’re… err, in together.”

Iggy doesn’t move but he very carefully asks. “Friendly?”

“Not sure.” Mickey bites his lip, looking away. “He—didn’t like my heat scent.”  

“Fuck”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, err... hi? This chapter was revised a thousand times before it finally got posted. It's not the original one I wrote last year. I got caught in a slump. I dropped to a low-low. I moved from Latin America to Europe. It's been a rough ride. Edits have been made to the story because I just didn't like where it was headed-off to. I lost the plot and where I wanted to go. So, I had to think really hard about what my goals were for this story. I think I've got them pretty sorted out. Writing it was like crawling out of hell tough. Every single word fought with me. But, I'm happy with the outcome. Hopefully, you do to. 
> 
> Some of you have been asking for Iggy to make an appearance. I think this is a fitting chapter to showcase my version of Iggy. Previously, you've caught sneak-peaks of how he was. This should explain how he's different from the show. I initially thought of Mickey having the _alpha_ -talk with Mandy. I did, however, feel like it should be done with someone older. Let's face it. Mandy's great but she's also just sixteen in this. She's not all-seeing or all-knowing. She's a fucked-up teen too. Don't fret. She's gonna have her moment sooner or later. 
> 
> PPS. (not story-related)  
> OMFG. I just need ya'll to know. You know how we fantasize guys twitching and trembling and shaking in pleasure when their assholes get played with? **IT'S ALL TRUE**. It's not a maleslash-shipper's fantasy. I'm biological female so this is news to me. OMFG. I can't fucking believe it. I thought it was all my perverted mind. But, apparently, it's true. One of my tumblr friends said so!


	16. Chapter 16

Sleeping at the Gallagher house isn't at all like sleeping at his house. It’s polar opposites. For one, Mickey's got his own single bed back in Trumbull. Here, he's sharing a rickety twin with Ian and Ian's freakishly long freckled limbs. Boy got another growth spurt over winter. At this rate, he’ll hit the doorframe before he turns eighteen.

Another thing is the noise.

The Milkovich house tends to be deserted most of the time whenever family's pulling a drug-run, or in the can, or just generally not there. The only time it's ever noisy is when one of them gets _out_ of the can, and there's the mandatory _welcome home_ party. There’s nothing to celebrate now. Iggy’s under the radar. Even Mandy’s been warned to stay low, semi-permanently sleeping over at a friend’s.  

Meanwhile, Mickey’s here—in the Gallagher house where there's a seemingly endless stream of noise, even more so as the year comes into fruition and the endless chaos of the near-summer rush drives everyone’s jitters—hiding in amidst the pandemonium that happens every day ending with ‘y’.

Thursdays are no different.

“Ian! Carl! Both of you get up! You're gonna be late.” Fiona shoulders her way into the room, basket attached her. She pats Carl on the thigh, and then kicks the corner of Ian's bed, while mechanically picking up stray clothing on the floor. Some are sticky with things she'd rather not know about. She leaves the door open. Neither boy reacts to her, but Mickey does.

“The fuck ya'll hollerin'bout. S'like a fuckin’ circus ‘ere,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes then poking at the gigantic alpha beside him. Ian smells so fucking good this morning. If they were alone, he would have already been on that knot but there are things more important than sex. “Yo, dickface, ya gotta get a move on or ya gonna be late. Didn' you say you had some quiz or shit today?”

Mickey’s been prickly since the run in Laredo, not that Ian knows that. Ian’s seems content to have the omega around the house. No explanations necessary. None of the other Gallaghers have said anything. At least, not to Mickey directly.

Ian flails around, twisting and turning and wiggling his way down until he's nuzzling Mickey's crotch, his sibling be damned. The omega's cock twitches at the contact. Mickey’s a man after all, internal biology be damned. His dick knows what it wants.

“Chemistry isn't for third period. I got time,” says Ian, fake-innocently looking up from between Mickey’s legs. His hands worm their way up Mickey’s loose boxers, path followed closely by his lips and tongue. The brunette isn’t having any of it though. Strong pale thighs squeeze Ian’s head playfully.

“Tch.” Mickey snorts, pulling the alpha by the short barely-there red hair. “Oh yeah? Don’t ‘cha got an English test too? With Mandy. First period. She warn’d me you'd forget. C'mon, get up, firecroth Up and off. Me and m’dick are gonna be here when ya get back. S’not like I gots anywhere to be.”

“But, Mick,” Ian groans, grinding his half-chub into Mickey’s. “Can’t we…? Just a few?”

Mickey throws his head back with a grunt, eyes momentarily closing. His whole body curls upward to mold into Ian—everywhere from his nipples to his groin. He takes a moment, only a moment, before exhaling the scent his grown addicted to, then opens his eyes. Ian’s are big, bright, ever-green, and full of promise as they stare into his own.

His hands briefly touch Ian’s cheek, mouth unconsciously forming into a half-smirk, then trails his fingers down Ian’s shoulder, sides, hip, then knot. He teases because he can, enjoying how Ian’s face melts into pleasure. Too bad it’s not the time for fun and game—not if Ian wants the grades to increase his JROTC rank by summer.

Debbie comes stomping into the corridor, boots louds against the creaky wooden floors. “Fiona! Tell Lip to get out of the bathroom! He's taking forever! I'm won't be able to put on make-up before second period!”

Mickey flinches at how she's like a mini-Mandy.

They hear Fiona scream at Lip through the bathroom door then adds, “Debs, you're not old enough for make-up. Just go to school with your natural beauty. You don't need it yet. And don’t you have first period?”

Debbie crosses arms and pouts. “You got Jimmy and you’re a beta. I need to attract a mate to spend my heat with. Besides, I’ve got art history. Who cares about art history when I’m supposed to have my heat soon? I’m gonna find a cute alpha who’ll pamper me.”

Just then, Lip chooses that moment to exit the bathroom with a trail of steam behind him. His eyes zero-in on his younger omega sibling, “like anyone’s gonna mate with you, Debs. They’ll all be scared of your freckly genes.”

“Shutup! You’ve got Mandy to help you.” She pushes past him, huffing. “And Ian’s got Mickey. Don’t see him complaining about Ian’s freckles. Stop being a big meanie!”

Mickey redoubles his effort as Lip approaches the bedroom. “Nobody wants’ta hear their lil’ sis’ sex life. S’disgusting.”

“No one wants to see their little brother fucking his omega either but you don’t see me complaining,” Lips says, nonchalantly shrugging.

Mickey growls lowly when Lip passes him. It's got to be a male omega thing. The pair of them are especially confrontational with each other. Ian's quick to notice this.

Ian intercepts before another silent war begins.

“Lip’s just being Lip,” he says, peeling himself off Mickey, to both their displeasures. He grabs onto Mickey's hand and starts kissing all the letters of _F-U-C-K-U-U-P-!_ written on the clenched knuckles. Mickey relaxes under his touch. “C’mon, Mick, how about some fresh air? I’m not asking you bring me to school but—”

“Aww look at you two being all domestic. Try not to fuck in my bed, ‘kay?” Lip coos mockingly while shrugging on his shirt.  “How about we discuss our cycles when you come back, _big sis_?” His overly sweet malty scent makes Mickey sick.

_Snap!_

That's it, the sound of Mickey’s last bit if patience, snapping. “Oiy, fuck you. On secon' thought—gross, asshole. S'my fuckin' sister you talkin' about. I bet she fucks your ass nice and raw with’a plastic dick when ya in heat, huh? Gives it to you like the omega skank that you are!” He picks clothes at random, most of them Ian's, and heads for the door. “C’mon, man, this shit ain't worth my time.”

Mickey’s mostly calm by the time they’re half-way to school. He didn’t _purposely_ head in this direction. He just did. Maybe it’s because of his earlier conversation with Ian. Something about science or English or math. Whatever. Mandy told him something about it. Again, whatever. Ian’s been babbling nonsense the whole time and Mickey didn’t hear a word of it.

“Say wha?” He finally gets a word in when Ian stops to take a breath.

“I said,” Ian starts again but then pulls back to look at Mickey. “You didn’t listen to anything I said, didn’t you?”

Mickey avoids Ian’s gaze.

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian sighs with a look of complete affection written all-over his puppy-dog face. Really, an alpha his height and size shouldn’t have the capability to look that endearing. It should be a crime, really. “Earth to Mickey. Really, Mick, how come you only ever listen to me when we’re fucking?”

Mickey throws a precautionary look around them. No one else walks the deserted streets. “Ayy, the fuck you said already?”

Ian just shakes his head. “You know the alpha you beat the shit out of at that club?”

“Yeah?” Mickey does. He remembers the wrenched stench of old mothballs that have gone bad at the back of the wardrobe, of some posh-ass cigarette that they sometimes carry in the store, of that _smell_ polluting Ian’s happy sunshine scent. The memory causes the pit of his stomach to sink.

“Relax, Mick,” Ian says, bumping their shoulders together in reassurance. It’s as much as he can do while they’re out in the open like this—where Mickey’s still pretending to be a beta and hiding his scent with Ian’s dirty clothes. “Just wants me to sneak into his mansion. Take all of his crap.”

Mickey tries not to flinch. His lips draw into a thin line, eyes rolling. “Really? Hilarious.”

“Can’t get himself divorced. Says I can take whatever I want. He’s loaded. You want in?” He asks, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.

Mickey wishes he had a pack of smokes to distract him. Right now, he wants nothing else that to wipe that pathetic look on Ian’s face. His traitorous inner omega suggests kissing it off. That’s load of shit. The thought quickly gets buried with the rest of his feelings.

Instead, he rubs his thumb across his bottom lip. Iggy’s out of the question. They haven’t really spoken since he dropped Mickey off at the dugouts. “With my cousins?”

“Yeah,” says Ian, rocking back and forth on his feet.

Well, there’s nothing to lose and everything to gain. Money’s got to be made somehow, right?

“A’ryt. I’m in.” Mickey bites his lip then slips. “I can’t believe ya still seein’ that geriatric viagroid. Don’t know what ya see in’im.”

Ian’s lips curl into a small smile. “He buys be stuff. Orders me room service. Got me that big pack of condoms that we never use.”

“Tch.” Mickey shoves him back in retaliation as they continue to talk. He pointedly stares off into the other direction, face turned away from the alpha. “Yeah. Whatever. When’s this shit going down? Gotta make some calls. Get a crew together.”

Ian grins like he’s won something. “Take your time. House isn’t going anywhere. Plan it. You were always good with that sort of thing. Better than me at least. S’hot.”

“Hell yeah. Me gettin’ all ghetto makes ya hot and shit. Yer one fucked-up motherfucker.” Mickey chuckles at the thought of Ian stealing despite all that JROTC rhetoric. He halts about a half-block from the school yard. “Ayt, get your pasty-ass to class and study or some shit. I gots to go. I’m outta smokes.”

“The shops got your brand. I put it in an order last weekend. Should be in by now.”

Mickey’s mouth twists into a frown. “Ayy, ayy, and shove your fucking shirt in towel-whats-his-name’s face? Tch. Good plan, Firecrotch. The best one yet.”

“Oh, I’ve got a plan,” Ian leans a millimeter closer. “I’m gonna ace my test and take my time with my prize after training. Didn’t you promise me a reward, Mick?” He dips just enough into his alpha-voice to make Mickey shiver in response.

_Ring_!

“Fuck!” Mickey swears, stepping back to answer his phone. Mandy’s contact name—Titty Skank—appears over the picture of their guns.

“ _Ian where the fuck are you?! You better be fucking close! She’s taking roll-call!_ ” Mandy’s hidden talent is screaming without actually screaming. Her message gets through loud in clear. “ _You gotta fucking hurry or she’s not going to let you take the test. Ian? Ian! Come on, you’re going to flunk English if you don’t pass this one! Ian! … Mickey, you better make fucking sure that Ian gets to class or I’m gonna shave your dick-hair in your sleep.”_

_Beep!_

Mickey stares at his phone for a solid ten seconds, until the screen turns off. “The fuck’s the skank calling me for?”

Ian pats himself precariously then lifts his shoulders into a shrug, blushing. “I, uh… I think I left my phone at home. Shit. She must’ve been calling. Bet Lip told her we’re together.”

Mickey reels in the need to punch Ian’s perfect face. He groans exasperatedly. Sometimes, he doesn’t know how the tall ginger giant got it to sixteen without falling into some sort of accident. Ian would lose his head it wasn’t attached to those broad shoulders.

“Just get to fuckin’ class.”

Ian gives Mickey the two-finger salute before running off. He claims his prize like a well-on trophy later that night, pulling every sound he can from Mickey until their rudely interrupted by Carl zombie-walking into his own bed.


	17. Chapter 17

The day of the heist falls on a Sunday, a week into the Summer holidays. Mickey and his cousins didn’t have to worry about flunking any classes, but Ian did and the job wasn’t getting done without him.

Ian successfully passed all his classes. No outstanding A’s like his brother Lip, but mostly B’s and C’s. He had one D in Trigonometry because math disagreed with him more than English, which Mickey gave him hell for—edging Ian through reviewing the mistakes on the pitiful D-marked final test until the alpha mostly answered right.

Today, he’s playing the get-away driver while Mickey and his cousins do the heavy-lifting.

The alpha viagroid gave Ian the code to the compound. All they needed to do was drive in, steal the shit, then get out—all without getting any of their asses caught by the cops. Ian was the only minor in their team of four, and there’s no way that Mickey was letting the red-haired alpha experience juvie. The system would eat Ian’s innocence in a day.

“Hey, hey,” Ian says in panic when the three men load-up on guns. “Guys, guys, no fucking guns. She’s just a drunk old lady in there.”

The two alphas grumble their dissent but, since Mickey technically called the job, it’s Mickey who gets to make the final decision. Neither boys have said anything about Mickey and Ian picking them up in the van together, nor did they mention anything about the pair’s nearly indistinguishable scents. A job’s a job. What matters is the pay-out.

Mickey grabs back the guns and shoves them into the bag.

“Grab and go,” Mickey barks at them, rubbing a knuckle across his lower lip, then turns to give Ian orders. “Keep it running. Easier. We’ll load-up the back.”

Ian cheekily gives him the two-finger salute. “Ayy, captain.”

“Oh, fuck-off!” Mickey rubs a palm to cover his stupid smile. He reaches back into the van to slap Ian on the back of the head as the others stalk into the house before him. Once the coast is clear, he leans over the gear-shift, hand braised on the passenger’s side headrest, and steals an adrenaline-pumped kiss. “Or fuck me. Later. Yeah?”

“Y—yeah,” Ian stammers, starry-eyed.

“Later,” Mickey says again with promise then saunters across the lawn, waving the bird like it’s a salute.

Inside is huge and obnoxious. It smells strongly of mothballs and the weird dried flower thing that grandmas love. Everything looks expensive and will catch a pretty penny once they either pawn it or sell it. It’ll cover their money issues for at least the summer if not more, as long as they won’t go on gallivant spending it all.

Mickey knows that he surely won’t.

There’s wall-sized paintings that look real but could be fake. Because, really? There’s just too goddamn many for them all to be real. They go for the obscure-looking ones that won’t be too hot in the eyes of a pawnshop.

They get some tables, a few statues, and a rug or two. The van steadily gets packed with more and more of the alpha-asshole’s stuff. Ian’s carefully stowing away the things from inside the van, working with Mickey’s cousins like clockwork—like he isn’t aiming for a straight-laced life at West Point. It shouldn’t make Mickey’s inner omega preen in pride.

Then, there’s a million tiny trinkets that they can sell in a flea market maybe three or four towns over. Far enough not to get caught but near enough the Southside that they won’t be suspicious. There’s a dime a dozen middle-class folks trying to pretend to be bourgeoise.

What catches Mickey’s eye though is an old grandfather clock in the entry way. He’s seen those in on one of those fake-ass reality shows on TV and, fake or not, they fetch a weighty price to the right buyer. Mickey’s got a contact in mind who loves this type of modern-rich shit. He can nip some savings for Ian’s birthday.

“Psst,” he whistle’s lowly, then gestures to the clock with his eyebrows.

The damn thing is heavier than it looks though. Easily the heft of two men. Despite his cousin’s alpha strength, they struggle to make headway for the door. Fuck doing shit like this while high. His asshole of a cousin trips on his own damn feet and the heavy weight of the clock falls on top of him with a thunderous thud.

 _Shit_.

Next comes quick stomps from the upstairs bedrooms.

Double-shit.

“Jesus christ—”

“Hey!” A high-pitched shout travels down from the steps. “Fuckers!”

“Oh, fuck!” Mickey shoves the clock off the alpha then hightails it to the door.

Haphazardly shot rounds follow the female omega’s screams out the door. “Fuck, fuckers! Fucking Ned. You fucking him too?!”

Mickey sees the light of the late morning sun, thinks its freedom for one brief second before its literally blown away. Rather, parts of his ass gets kiss-fucked by pellet shrapnel. Pain blossoms from his left ass-cheek as he runs.

“No fucking way.” That bitch got a lucky shot.

He dives into the open door, falls over the gears, ass high in the air. The van smells thick of Ian’s panicked scent. What once smelled like summer sun and open grass now smells like dried leaves caked with mug. It’s disgusting. The smells of gun powder, bourbon, and burning flesh don’t make it any easier.

“Drive, drive, drive!” He grits out against the pain.

“Fuck, Mickey! You fucking got shot!” Ian says from beside him, sweating in fear.

“Fuck ya. I know I fucking got shot, damnit. Now, _drive_!” He orders, using something he once vowed never to ever use—his omega voice—to propel Ian’s inner alpha into action. It, at least, shocked the red-haired alpha into action. Ian moves automatically, shifting gears and driving off away from the gunshots that chase them.

It’s kind of a blur after that. They’re all screaming directions at Ian’s direction, hoping—more like begging—the alpha to understand them. The car’s a retched mix of ball-sweat and too many scents that makes Mickey’s mind dizzy from over-exposure. It’s a literal breath of fresh-air once the van-doors open and cool summer air wafts through the interior.

Ian flat-out growls when one of other two alphas try to touch him. It’s crazy stupid and crazy hot. Mickey can barely think through the pain but he’s proud that he didn’t pass-out this time. He wishes he did though. The embarrassment of being carried bridal-style across the Gallagher’s threshold and into the kitchen will kill him once the fog of pain goes away. Then, the stench of mothballs returns with vengeance.

“The fuck?” He can barely get a world out before another scream rips from his throat as the old-fart—who turns out to be a goddamn doctor—digs out a pellet from the meat of his ass. Sweat pools in weird places as he’s lying there—stomach down, ass exposed, completely and utterly vulnerable—on the Gallagher’s kitchen counter.

“Mickey?” Ian’s voice cuts through the haze. He’s crying like a goddamn pussy. Maybe he says the last bit out loud because Ian answers him. “Fuck, Mickey, y—you—you got shot.”

Mickey laughs—or he thinks he laughs. Everything’s fuzzy at best. “Yeah, well, ain’t the first time, Firecrotch, but betta be the last or imma carve that fucking knot off. Bitch got me on the goods. S’gonna scar my ass. Didn’t hit any vitals parts though. Still got’em jewels intact. Mostly. You gonna stop banging this ass ‘cause it ain’t pretty, huh? Faggot.”

Ian chokes up a half-sob half-chuckle. Mickey’s not entirely sure what that sound is, but he does hear the next faggy shit that comes out of Ian’s mouth.

“I’m still gonna lo—like you either way, Mick.”

It’s the fucking _pellets_ in his has. That’s all. That’s the only reason why Mickey twists-up Ian’s words like that. It’s got to be the pain. Or Ian’s playing stupid L-sick puppy again. Either way, Mickey knows it’s not really true. Traumatic experiences make people say crazy shit. Shit that they don’t really mean.

“Mickey—”

“Shutup! Oww—fuck!” Mickey bangs his head on the table hard to distract himself from the gaping holes in his ass. They burn like a motherfucker—more than the bullet to the thigh ever did. “Shit—fuck!” His head drops again a second time, making him dizzy from the impact. Words float over his head.

“Get him to stop!”

“How the fuck?! It’s fuckin’ Mickey. He’s not gonna stop!”

“Then put something under his head ‘cause I can’t do head trauma in a kitchen, Ian!”

Mickey’s inner omega snarls when he hears the viagroid calling Ian’s name. His legs jerk at the older alpha’s unwanted touch, and everything inside him screams to get away. Pill-popping what-his-face doesn’t have a right—has absolutely no right to Ian.

Ian’s—Ian is—

“Jesus, Mick, you’re gonna give yourself a concussion.”

Ian’s here.

Then, all of a sudden, the table underneath him doesn’t feel as hard when he bangs his head on it again. Instead, there’s the scent of sunlight and bright mornings on the best days of summer. It’s endlessly green parks with a big open lake—the type where families gather in pack with their children, and barbeques, and an endless supply of ice-cold beer. Ian’s scent wraps around him like a security blanket. He feels safe.

“Ian,” he groans, burying his face further into the body-warm jacket.

Ian cards hands over through his damp hair.

It’s faggy but Mickey can’t find it in him to care.

His inner omega basks in Ian’s attention, purring in contentment despite the lightning-hot pain burning through his flesh every time the doctor digs out a pellet. He bites his lip to keep from muttering any more stupid shit—words of affection, words of confession, words that are better off buried so deep that they’ll never risk floating to the surface. All those words get swallowed down.

“Ian,” he says instead because it’s the safest thing he can say. He chants it like a mantra of strength until the pain finally overcomes him.

Mickey’s dreams open the floodgates to his memories.

_“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Don’t get fucking cryptic on me now, fucker! I gotta know if those dudes are friendlies or not.”_

_Mickey bites his lip, eyeing the Hispanic boy with trepidation. “Shit, I don’t know but he_ know _. Fucking bastard knows that I’m a fucking omega. He could have outed me to Terry.”_

_“Could have or would have. There’s s fucking difference—a big fucking difference there, bitch, so which is it?” The faux leather steering wheel cover whines under Iggy’s hands. He holds it in a white-knuckled grip._

_“Fuck, shit, I don’t know man!”_

_Mickey meets his brother’s eyes through the rearview mirror. Both of them are reluctant to look away from the three figures increasingly getting closer to the van. Minutes stretch on longer like father time himself enjoys taunting them._

_Iggy snaps. “Bull-shit. None of that I-don’t-fucking-know-crap. You fucking know. If you feel sick like you wanna throw-up, then that’s not ‘cause we had bad burgers. That’s your gut telling you that you’re made. Are you made, Mickey?”_

_Mickey eyes the dark-skinned Hispanic boy with trepidation. That beta has seen him with Ian—_ smelled _him when Ian came to visit. His scent is by no means enticing but it’s still discernably the smell of_ heat. _Back then, before the suppressants and birth control pills came, it was at its most pungent whenever Ian was involved._

_“Shit, fuck, yes. He knows—fuck. He fucking told Terry—sh—shit—fuck—fuck!”_

_He always knew that his scent would get the better of him one day._

_That day is today._

_“Stay in the car,” Iggy tells him—commands him—in an alpha-voice, knowing full-well that it’ll take a good few minutes before Mickey can disobey._

_Mickey watches with dread as his brother goes out and starts a fucking fist-fight with the beta boy. It spurs a ruckus. Surprisingly, both fathers come to their sons’ aids and end-up brawling with each other. The other guy is shorter than Terry but holds more bulk. Milkovich senior gets thrown into the snow and stays down._

_Then, the fight becomes two-against one._

_Iggy holds his ground. The beta rushes straight into clumsy uppercut then collapses like a ragdoll. It sparks something in the older stranger, probably familial bonds but Mickey’s too far away to smell for certain. The old coot kicks Iggy on the back, following it with a flurry of punches that reach even the confines of the stuffy car._

_Mickey fights tooth and nail against his brother’s alpha orders to scramble into the glove compartment. One hand wraps around the handle of the old revolver while the other frantically draws the window down. He does the only thing he can do—he shoots the motherfucking bastard._

_“Lehkovazhnyy! Get your ass back here and drive!” He shouts in Ukrainian, letting his omega-voice bleed into the words. It’s a risk and he knows it. He hopes for fuck that the bastard really did knock Terry out cold. Either way, he’s fucked because he’s pretty sure that Terry knows his secret._

_Iggy drags himself into the car, bleeding from a cut on the side of his head._

_“You gonna be okay?” Mickey forces himself to mumble._

_Iggy meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Terry fucking knows.”_

_They’re both fucked. Nobody double-crosses Terry and lives to tell the tale for long. Their countdown timers have begun. It will only be a matter of time before he hunts them down._

**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice~ One of the reasons why I love writing for this fandom is because of the feedback that I get. It doesn't have to be long or inspiring. I'm constantly trying to improve how I write—be it grammar, plot, or characters. I'd appreciate it. :) 
> 
> ***  
>  **If you have a prompt or an idea, you can[INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~**
> 
>   **As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).**
> 
>   **[The ABO Primer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644), though not strictly followed.**


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